Every Broken Bone
by The Sushi Monster
Summary: It's the little things that mean the most. / One-shots surrounding the agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
1. waterfall

**Summary****:**_ "His skin glistens against the white sheets and blank walls; he looks paler than usual, strips of his messy hair stuck to his forehead." _Simmons visits Fitz in the hospital._  
_**Warning/Spoiler: **None.  
**Rating:** K+/PG  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Fitz/Simmons_  
_

**Author's Note: **Originally posted on Tumblr 12/17 and based on a tumblr post that semi-inspired the idea for this fic.

* * *

His skin glistens against the white sheets and blank walls; he looks paler than usual, strips of his messy hair stuck to his forehead. Simmons walks over slowly, her arms around herself, her eyes unable to stray from his closed eyelids.

When she almost trips over the hospital bed, Simmons hisses and rubs her toe, leaning against the bedframe. And that's when she notices that Fitz is awake – eyes still cloudy, but his lips slowly turning upwards.

"Hey," says Fitz, pushing himself up. Simmons immediately moves to help him arrange his pillows. "Coulson let you come in first?" She nods, her hands still lingering by his shoulders; she stays seated right beside him. Fitz surprises her when his hand latches onto hers, settling softly on the sheets. "Probably sent you in to soften the blow."

"He was worried about you, Fitz."

"I know." He sighs. She's watching his face and the tiny ripples at the corners of his eyes; but he's just looking at her hand, his thumb lightly tapping against her wrist, the rest of his fingers hanging loosely off her palm. "So what have they got me on?"

Simmons forces herself to look over at the IV bag. "Just morphine. For the – the pain." The word sticks to her throat; it's tar scratching down her insides.

Fitz sighs again, this time squeezing her hand. "I'm okay, Jemma."

"Barely," she says. "If May hadn't gotten there – "

"But she did." Fitz pulls himself up again, but this time he pulls her too. "When you jumped out of an airplane to save us, and Ward saved you, you told me I was the hero."

"That was different," says Simmons, shaking her head. But she follows his thoughts, an already solved problem worked out together ages ago.

"I couldn't have wired the device without you, Jemma, and I wouldn't have gotten out of there alive without you. I would not _be here _without you." Fitz shakes his head. "For a genius, you're really daft sometimes."

"Fitz – "

"No," he says, her hand now in his lap, but his eyes deadlocked onto hers. "I don't care – when you're dangling between life and death you don't have time to think. Just to feel." His voice is rising, but Simmons can hear the cracks in their thinly designed veil now – those lines blur right before her. "And I didn't think of Skye or my robots or even that damn monkey Coulson promised me – "

"I don't think – "

But Fitz doesn't hear her, because words are tumbling out of his mouth; it's a waterfall, each droplet another crystal reflecting back her own eyes in his. "I thought of _you_, Jemma – and if that ruins whatever we have now, I don't care anymore, because we – this is a dangerous line of work you got us into and I don't think I can wait until the next time one of us is almost dying – "

"Fitz – "

" – and that seems to be happening way too often and I would like to change that if possible and if Coulson is going to kill me at least I've told you and maybe I can use this as leverage to get that monkey because he _did_ promise – "

"_Fitz_ – "

" – and I think having a monkey would be amazing, especially if you helped me name him – but nothing lame like Rory because we are _not_ naming him after one of the worst companions the franchise has ever had – "

"_LEO."_

Fitz blinks and in that time, Simmons outlines his face with her gaze. Wrinkles frame his eyes, but she knows it's worry – his worry collects in his heartbeat and Simmons wonders if their hearts are as in sync as their minds.

But then she kisses him and she knows they are; because Fitz's hand squeezes hers and Simmons breathes him in – despite the stale odor of _hospital_, there's the underlining musk of steel and cinnamon, of_home_. The tingling on her lips lingers even when she moves away, letting the mere inches between them erase the uncertainty circling his eyes.

Fitz opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head instead; Simmons can see the millions of thoughts pushed aside. "You called me Leo," he says, the disbelief masking the hope and relief that Simmons hears hidden between each word. "You haven't called me Leo since – well – "

Simmons just laughs, tears reflecting his eyes in hers.


	2. mug

**Summary****:**_ "The coffee warms his fingers, and his heart thaws slowly; although the nightmares no longer dance in his vision, the suffocating feeling is only starting to ease away." _Coulson wakes up to a quiet BUS on Christmas morning._  
_**Warning/Spoiler: **Post-"The Bridge" but probably AU, with Coulson having returned.  
**Rating:** K+/PG  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Gen, all. Ensemble._  
_

**Author's Note: **Originally posted on Tumblr 12/25 as a Christmas gift.

* * *

The BUS is silent Christmas morning.

Coulson wakes up early, his chest heavy and his eyes stuck shut; he feels sunlight on his bare legs, sheets wrapped around them, yet he feels so very cold. He wonders if May forgot to adjust the settings again, but then he feels the sweat covering his face and hands and chest. The nightmare still stings behind his closed eyelids, but part of him forgets instantly – there is no more death or blackness or a flower dress; it's just the steady hum of his airplane and the warm presence of his team.

When he walks through the kitchen, he is only mildly surprised to find Fitzsimmons whispering over cups of tea and nursing a pile of gifts, wrapping paper strewn around them. They quiet when he enters, their eyes suddenly solemn, and Coulson wishes to see the string of lights wrapped around their nonexistent tree in their eyes again.

"Merry Christmas," he says instead. He grabs a coffee filter and places it into the machine, pretending to not to notice a series of glances and signals passed silently between the two. So when Fitz finally says something – probably due to Simmons' insistence – Coulson just smiles.

"Did you sleep well, sir?" says Fitz, the hardness in his voice undercut by his fidgeting.

"I hope we didn't disturb you – " says Simmons. Coulson finds himself frowning at her frown.

" – we didn't mean to wake up so early – "

" – but it is Christmas."

Coulson shakes his head. "I'm surprised Skye isn't here to join you, to be honest." Smiling feels awkward, like a cold sock already worn, but his muscles seem to adjust easily. "But since you two are the first awake, you can have your present first."

They look at each other with unreadable expressions, but Simmons is the first to beam. "You got us presents, sir?"

"From the mountain of presents on this table, Simmons, I expect you two did the same."

Simmons blushes and nods, gently sliding a box down the table towards him. "From both Fitz and I," she says, her smile pink and her eyes gold. Fitz just nods.

Coulson eyes the gift before picking it up. The smell of coffee has begun to spread and he suspects soon Ward will wander towards them, a morning workout already under his belt. "You two may want to head over to the lab." Fitzsimmons begin speaking at once and Coulson lifts a finger to quiet them. "Trust me."

So Fitzsimmons leave, and as Fitz slips out the door, Ward enters, a towel around his neck and his shirt drenched in sweat. "Good morning, sir," he says, grabbing an apple from the fridge and downing water from his bottle.

"Merry Christmas, Agent Ward," says Coulson, pouring himself a cup of coffee. The steam floats up from his mug and Coulson wonders if his face looks as tired as he feels. "You may want to head back to your bunk soon, before Skye steals your present."

Ward frowns, his hand halfway to his mouth, his half-eaten apple resting in wrapped fingers. "Present?"

Coulson raises an eyebrow. "Yes, present. It's Christmas."

"Sir – I didn't get you – I didn't think – Christmas isn't very big - "

"Grant," says Coulson, lowering his mug, the dark black liquid reflecting nothing except the artificial lighting. "Go."

So Ward leaves, and Coulson takes in a deep breath in the silence. The coffee warms his fingers, and his heart thaws slowly; although the nightmares no longer dance in his vision, the suffocating feeling is only starting to ease away. It's after another sip of his coffee that May walks in.

She nods at the sight of him; black leather glitters in the bright lighting of the kitchen, even as May slips around the area. Coulson sees it almost as a dance; from fridge to counter to table to stove, May prepares breakfast for herself, only glancing at him twice. Once, to wish him good morning; the second time, it's after he wishes her a Merry Christmas.

"It doesn't seem very merry," she says, searching for her mug in the small cabinet above the sink. "No tree."

"I noticed that," says Coulson, staring at his own mug now. He thinks he can see the outline of a house, but maybe that's just his face. "I guess no one felt up to it."

May looks at him. It's that look that speaks with emotions rather than words, that makes his chest ache just slightly. Coulson blinks, trying his best to look away before May can see the dark circles and the hesitant flinches. But May's too good. "No one? Or you?"

She knows the answer to her own question, of course; but Coulson knows she still searches for a reply, because her gaze never wavers. He sighs. "Everyone seems to be very wrapped up in their own worlds – recuperating and taking time to gather themselves." Coulson swirls the mug, letting the coffee stain the sides of the cup. "It doesn't seem like the time to be forcing team bonding."

"I don't think you realize how much of an impact you have, Phil," says May, her soft voice tinted with the edge of someone burdened by sorrow and pain. Regret, too, stains her words; but it's the disappointment that screams the most. "Without you, we almost fell apart."

"But you didn't." He knows the stories; he's been briefed.

"No," says May, shutting off the stove and facing him completely. "But almosts are not far from what-ifs – a place you and I both know are dangerous waters." She pulls out the chair beside him, interlocking her fingers over the table as she takes a seat. "Sir, the reason no one feels like celebrating the holidays is because _you_ don't feel like celebrating the holidays."

"But I got everyone gifts – "

"Because it's all about gifts, right?" May stands up again, picking up her plate of scrambled eggs and a banana. "And the tree and the tinsel and the mistletoe – "

"No," says Coulson and May nods. "Did they say anything – "

"They didn't have to."

And May leaves, but Coulson is too busy staring at the box still sitting beside him. Ignoring his empty mug in favor of the gift, he unwraps the present with care. And when he's staring at an Avengers t-shirt, Iron Man and Captain America and the Hulk and Hawkeye and Black Widow and Thor all staring back at him, he feels that last bit of constriction in his chest fade away.

And then the plan falls into place, simply all at once.

* * *

Skye wakes up much later than usual, the sun burning through the curtains of her bunk. Eyeing the alarm clock on her nightstand, she's surprised Ward hasn't already woken her for training; but then again, it_is_ Christmas and maybe Ward isn't _exactly_ human but he's probably not completely robotic either. She should really have Fitz check.

When Skye went to bed the previous night, there were no signs that it was Christmas Eve; no tree, no lights, no cookies and milk left on the table. Sometimes Skye wonders if all of SHIELD had no regard for the holiday – but then she'd overhear Fitzsimmons reminiscing about holidays past and Ward grumbling about family gatherings. So Skye wonders if maybe it's just her that feels like it isn't really _Christmas._

Skye leaves her bunk and wonders which of her makeshift family journeyed to Christmases past, leaving an overnight miracle in their wake.

May is smiling, watching Ward try to pick the right Jenga piece to pull away. Coulson, sitting opposite Ward, shakes his head. "Definitely not that one," he says and Ward glares at him. Skye bites her lip to stop from grinning, but she's smiling anyway because Fitzsimmons spot her immediately.

"Skye!" says Simmons, bringing everyone's attention to her. "Coulson got us gifts!" She's cuddling what looks like a stick; Fitz is running his fingers down an identical one.

"What are they – " says Skye, and even before she finishes, she regrets starting because Fitzsimmons start explaining, in mirrored and knotted sentences, about new SHIELD devices, prototype sevens, not even cleared for field use yet. Skye is sure there's something about electricity and brain waves and measurements in their rants, but they speak so fast that their voices are a racing blur. So instead she nods and glances over to May, who shrugs.

And then Ward swears.

The Jenga pile comes crashing down, Coulson beaming amist the wreckage. "I knew this was a great present." Ward says nothing, almost sulking, and Skye grins.

"Aw, did my SO lose? Seems like you're not so great at board games after all."

"I can take you in monopoly, any day," says Ward, gathering the pieces together to begin building again. "Or Risk. I'm great at Risk."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," says Skye, taking a seat between Ward and Fitz, who starts swinging his new gift around. Skye's saved from grabbing the thing away from him when Simmons squeaks and starts rambling about the hidden knob at the end. "From you?" she asks Coulson instead, gesturing to Fitzsimmons' new toys.

Coulson smiles and there's something different about it; Skye thinks she sees shadows receding –_finally_ – and she understands then that maybe it's no ghost visiting Ebenezer Coulson, but just Melinda May. "Your present can be found in the kitchen. I believe Fitzsimmons got you something as well."

Skye wants to dive over the couch and scramble towards her gifts immediately; but with Fitz jumping up and down beside her and Coulson's gaze filled with light for once, she stays still. Presents can be opened later; this – May pointing to the engravings on Fitzsimmons' staffs, Ward muttering about luck, Coulson smiling at her warmly – is what she has been waiting for. _This_ feels more like Christmas.

Coulson later brings mugs of hot chocolate for all of them. Skye drops in marshmallows in the shape of a smiley face; when Coulson laughs, he swirls his own cup, glancing at the stains of hot chocolate on the side of his mug. His face is a cross between a smile and a frown; despite the contradictory expression, Skye knows that his shoulders seem much straighter.

(Later, Skye opens her gifts in the privacy of her own bunk. Fitzsimmons give back her phone, newly adjusted to take sensory readings and translate them into code.

Coulson gives her a puzzle.)


	3. love

**Summary**_**: **_"_This is the story of how Fitz and Simmons became Fitzsimmons. This is a love story."_ In which Fitz falls in love, Simmons gets married, and Fitzsimmons is forever (kind of).  
**Warning/Spoiler: **None.  
**Rating:** T/PG-13  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Fitz/Simmons

**Author's Note:**You're probably all going to hate me after this. Take that as you will. (Also, you should _really_ blame the anon who gave me "a drop in the ocean, a change in the weather, I was praying that you and me might end up together" as a prompt because seriously. But you may want to listen to the song by Ron Pope on repeat while reading this.)

* * *

**Love**

This is the story of how Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons became Fitzsimmons. This is a love story.

* * *

Fitz watches her laugh; her eyes sing and her lips glitter and everything about her is beautiful – she's a portrait of grace and brilliance and joy, without the condition of remaining still. To Fitz, Jemma is holographic technology embodied in the sunlight that reflects off her hair. Skye nudges Simmons gently, a smile teasing her face, and Simmons shakes her head with an eye roll.

Fitz swallows his sigh when Kaitlin steps beside him. "You should talk to her," she says, her dark hair braided across her shoulders.

He kisses her on the cheek. "Let's dance," he says instead.

* * *

They become Fitzsimmons on a Tuesday afternoon, during the dead of winter, when it's already dark and only four.

Simmons blows on her hands, hoping to warm up her fingers and prevent the onslaught of hypothermia. Or frostbite. Beside her, Fitz is zipping up his jacket.

"You sure you'll be okay out here? It's bloody freezing," he says, the gray beanie covering his head, but curls of blonde hair peaking out. It makes Simmons smile.

"I'll be fine," she says, knowing that she's shivering as the temperature continues to drop. Fitz just looks at her, and Simmons wonders how he can just know. "The bus should be here in – " she says, glancing down at her phone.

Fitz leans over her shoulder. "Five minutes ago?"

Simmons narrows her eyes at him. "No – they'll be another one – in ten minutes."

"There's a bookstore a few buildings down. How about we wait there?" Despite Fitz's warm smile and the way his face is framed by the fog leaving his lips, Simmons still hesitates. Sighing, Fitz steps behind her and places his hands on her shoulders. "C'mon, Mum would kill me if she knew I let a girl freeze to death."

"She sounds like a smart woman."

Fitz's face is like the missing sun and Simmons finds herself moving closer as they walk down the street. "She is," he says, his eyes focused in front of him, but Simmons sees memories and affection running across his vision. "Nothing on you though."

Simmons rolls her eyes but lets the comment slide. Fitz's compliments are the tiny specks that glimmer in the light, unseen until he wants them to be. The silence she lets overtake them is not awkward or comfortable – it just is.

The bookstore is indeed warmer inside; there's a small fire that crackles when the door opens and Simmons smells books and leather. While the woman behind the cashier nods in greeting, the store remains relatively empty. The smile that floats onto her face is not completely voluntary but Fitz catches it anyway. "It's nice, isn't it? They have a diverse sci-fi section."

Somehow she's not surprised he knows this. "What about fantasy?"

Fitz grins and heads to the right, past a poster for a new book series of the supernatural variety that doesn't quite attract her attention; the sight of an aisle of books with leather-bound covers does.

"Wow." Her fingers glides over the spine of _The Hobbit_, each ridge softer than the previous. Simmons pulls the book out of its slot and turns around to ask Fitz about his thoughts on the series, but he's disappeared. Frowning, Simmons steps out of the aisle and peers around the corner. "Fitz?"

"Sorry, sorry," he says quickly, returning with his arms around a book. "_Ender's Game_," he says at her look, his grin still growing on his lips. "My favorite."

"_The Hobbit_," says Simmons, brandishing her book in much the same way Fitz is. "My favorite."

Fitz smiles at her and she smiles back.

(They end up sitting side by side reading their favorite books in the back aisle, the minutes falling away; by the time Simmons remembers she has to head home, Fitz has already admitted to breaking Simmons' new stereo microscope and Simmons has already groaned at three of his jokes.

When Simmons rushes out, she almost leaves with _The Hobbit _still in her hands, but Fitz grabs her wrist. "You may want to – you know – " he says, dropping her hand all of a sudden.

Simmons is flushed because of the cold and the rush. "Right." She drops the book off in a cart by the door with other misplaced books, before stuffing her hand in her pocket. "Thanks."

She leaves before her mouth can get away with her – she can't risk telling Fitz she enjoyed spending time with him; she can't tell him he's not so bad after all.

They're just lab partners.)

* * *

When the black suit visits them in their apartment, Fitz is hastily putting out a fire on the living room table and Simmons is lecturing him while keeping an eye on the spaghetti on the stove.

"You have to make sure the Geiger counter is properly calibrated to the rest of the – "

"I _know_ I have to calibrate it, okay, thanks – "

"I'm not the one who set our mantelpiece on fire, Fitz!"

"No, you just bring back mice feces and leave it by the pickles!"

"They were not _feces,_ they were just the kidneys – and you shouldn't have left the pickles out anyway!"

"Ahem," the man says, clearing his throat and shutting the door. Fitz successfully douses the flames with a cup of water and Simmons straightens when she remembers they have company.

"Right! Yes, sir, I'm sorry – just one moment – " she disappears behind the kitchen walls for a moment. "Fitz! Can you – "

"Right!" He clears off an armchair, dumping the various journals and notebooks into a pile in the corner of the room. "Have a seat, sir, I'm sorry, we weren't expecting company."

"I'd prefer to remain standing, Agent Fitz," says the Black Suit.

Fitz almost asks him to take off his sunglasses since they unnerve him so much, but he suppresses the desire. "Uh, right. Well. I'll just – " Fitz slips into the kitchen, glancing back at the SHIELD agent, standing still at their door. "He's from SHIELD, level 6 I think. Wants to talk to us."

"Okay," says Simmons, switching off the stove and sticking a bookmark in the book sitting on the counter. "Okay," she says again following Fitz back to their living room. "Sir?"

"Agent Fitz, Agent Simmons," says Black Suit, "I'm here to offer you a position on an field-active team."

(That night, when they both sit on Fitz's bed, Simmons tells him about her dream – her dream to have adventures and travel the world, while researching and experimenting. Fitz tells her about his fear – his fear of being stuck, without experience and the skills he needs.

Simmons knows he fears of dying; Fitz knows she dreams of being more. Neither one says it though.)

* * *

Coulson begins splitting them up after he returns.

At first, Simmons is wary. The memory of Fitz's blank face as the fire spread, almost swallowing him, the constant _tick tick tick_ of the bomb screaming in her ears – it _burns_ behind her eyelids when she sleeps. Somehow, it hurts more than jumping out of a plane in the hopes to spare her friends from death by alien virus.

Then, she decides accepts it. Coulson clearly wants them to grow more independent of each other; he isn't asking them to split up _completely_ – just wants them go in separate groups. They've been doing so already – when Simmons went with Ward to investigate the murder in the Norwegian park, or when Fitz went to Ossetia – but the conversation is different now, more formal.

But then, once the ache in her chest threatens to tear her apart because _Fitz isn't there_, she's furious.

"Sir, you can't expect me to not check on him! He's in the middle of a _desert_!" Simmons twists her arms around her chest, applying pressure to the wound.

"Agent May is with him, Simmons," says Coulson. "Please go back to the lab with Skye."

Simmons does because it's _what _she does; but that doesn't mean she doesn't stop jumping every time she drops a vial thinking Fitz will catch it. Skye tries to call her out on how she unravels, but Simmons refuses to hear it – she just wants Fitz.

(When Fitz returns the next day, and after she refuses to let him out of her sight, they both agree that maybe they _do_ need to be apart a bit more. So Fitz stops calling her when he's hungry and Simmons stops accidently dropping vials expecting him to catch them.

It's the little things – but eventually they can even live in separate apartments. And much later, they can forget to call.)

* * *

Fitz meets Kaitlin in New York.

It's snowing, in February, and the sun makes the ice on the ground look prettier than it should. The team is spending the night in the city, and Simmons is still at the hotel nursing her broken wrist.

Kaitlin runs into him; she's carrying shopping bags and her glasses slip onto the sidewalk when his shoulder hits her chest. They awkwardly feel their way through the greeting – "Kaitlin. I work at a local company. Programmer." "I'm – uh, Fitz. Leo. I, uh – I'm an engineer. Just visiting." – and she asks for his number.

Fitz blinks several times. "Oh. Um. Right." He ends up giving her his private cellphone number, the one only his Mum and Simmons and now Ward and Skye and May and Coulson have. Kaitlin smiles, her glasses hanging awkwardly on her nose, but her deep hazel eyes remaining steady. Rubbing the back of his neck, Fitz glances at his feet. "Well – I better go. It was nice meeting you. Kaitlin."

"It was nice meeting you, Leo Fitz."

(Kaitlin calls him a few nights later, when the team is already on their next mission in Europe. Fitz promises to let her know when he's in the area next.

He keeps his promise four months later.)

* * *

Simmons falls in love with Skye the day after Fitz breaks her heart.

"Hey," says Skye, her arm wrapped around Simmons' shoulders. "I'm here. It'll be okay, eventually."

(And eventually, it is okay. Just not right then, not with Fitz kissing another woman, not with all the words she thought he could read stuck in the back of her throat. It's not okay when Skye stays the night, a tangle of arms and sheets and hair. But it is okay the next morning. And it's better than okay when Skye kisses her several months later, lips of raspberries and hair smelling like lavender. It's wonderful when Simmons kisses back, Fitz watching blank-faced as he accidently breaks his new communicator prototype.)

* * *

Sitting back to back on the laboratory floor, Fitzsimmons only look up from their work when Skye runs in, breathing loudly and the tablet in her hands flashing. "Conference room – now."

Ward is pacing while Coulson flips through electronic files. May stands quietly in the back, her frown tinged with something that Fitz thinks is _fear_. And that scares him more than the picture of the man on the screen.

"Franklin Hall," says Coulson, his eyes firmly on his team. He shifts his gaze onto each member individually, and they all look back at him. "Thought to have died in the explosion of Ian Quinn's mansion back in 2013 – "

"Sir," says Skye, "you don't have to repeat the story."

Coulson looks at Skye, his frown more thoughtful than upset. "It turns out that Dr. Hall did not die in the explosion like we suspected."

"How is that possible?" asks Fitz. "You said – "

"He fell into the Gravitonium field created by the doctor during his experiments," says May. "It's possible that might have kept him alive."

Fitz finds Simmons immediately; she's already staring at him, the gears in her brain spinning. "If he had enough access to the oxygen from the container they were holding it in – "

" – and if there was enough energy generated by the explosion – "

" – it could have preserved his vitals and possibly create retroactive mutations – "

" – and if his molecules intermingled with those of the gravitonium's – "

" – then he could have absorbed some of the effects – "

" – which may have been the catalyst for more unnatural occurrences like longevity, or improved senses, or – "

"Mentally controlled gravitation influence," they say as one, eyes wide as they turn to the rest of the team.

Coulson swipes down the control panel. "Well, that would explain that."

The six watch as a New York skyscraper floats ten feet off the ground.

* * *

"How's Kaitlin?" asks Simmons, the dress she wears hugging her legs. She wonders why she let Skye dress her for this. This is _Fitz_.

"Good," says Fitz, cutting his steak. "She says hi, by the way."

"Tell her I say hi back."

As Simmons takes a sip of water, she decides she hates this. She hates the awkward silence, she hates the way Fitz won't look at her, she hates that she can't read him anymore. Words still feel heavy around him; once where she'd find herself speaking without thought around him, now she just thinks and wonders. The illusion has worn off; they are not psychically linked after all – they just spent too much time together.

Fitz almost chokes on his food and Simmons has to laugh when she taps his back as he downs some water. "Easy there," she says. "Can't send you back to Kaitlin all choked up."

"Stupid bone," says Fitz, his lips almost pouting. She only grins. "I miss May's cooking."

"Me too," says Simmons, letting her hand fall from behind Fitz's back. Her fingers lock together and she twists them as she smiles. "And don't tell him I said this – but I kind of miss Ward's sandwiches too."

Fitz's laugh is cool and light, but Simmons thinks it sparkles; his smile is the moon, and his eyes the stars, and when Fitz shakes his head, she sees him as he used to be – her Fitz, the light in the darkness, the embrace of silence at night. "Nothing will ever beat your sandwiches, Jemma."

Simmons gets caught up in his eyes again after that. She wants to see his blue droplets of rain trained solely on her, with the same fire she used to see – but she's in the desert now. And the future is ahead of her.

(That night, as they walk home, it starts raining. They laugh and take refuge in a bus stop and Fitz reminds her that they first became friends because she couldn't tell time. Simmons rolls her eyes; she doesn't correct him.

They become Fitzsimmons again after that.)

* * *

The first time they meet, Fitz hates Simmons.

She beats him in the first pop quiz their professor gives; she specializes in biochemistry but still seems to create a decent computer program in league with his own; she eats all the watermelon in the university dining halls.

(But then they're assigned as lab partners in their second year; she asks for his help with quantum psychics and he grudgingly admits he _may_ need a tutor in zoology.

And then, in December on a Tuesday afternoon, they become best friends.)

* * *

They know something has gone wrong when Skye starts screaming Ward's name.

"Skye! Ward! What's going on?" Simmons hears only static and yelling.

"Simmons – " says Fitz, his attention flittering between her and his computer. "I just lost May's tracker."

"Okay," says Simmons, her finger shaking and the screen in front of her becoming oddly blurry. "Okay – we need to find them."

"Find – " Fitz is no longer looking at his computer now, Coulson's tracker also offline; instead, she sees him completely. The glow in his eyes matches a memory from long ago – the two of them perched on a full bed, nervous and excited and hopeful. "Simmons – we can't – "

"We have to."

Fitz follows her; he always does.

(They get to the door of the building before she finally looks at him; he looks older, and his back is straight, and she's distinctly reminded of how he was before leaving for Ossetia with Ward. Fitz catches her looking at him.

"Are you sure?"

"Are you?"

Instead of answering, they just look at each other.)

* * *

The muted strains of Skye's laughter filter into his bunk, but Fitz barely hears it; instead, he's staring at Simmons. This isn't new – he looks at her a lot: he has to; she's his partner. But sometimes her hair gets caught in his jacket zipper, or her lips dance between laughter and annoyance, or her eyes widen at the sight of a new discovery. In those moments, Fitz thinks he's probably _staring_ rather than just staring.

Tonight he _stares_ because Simmons is sitting next to him, their legs and shoulders touching, her fingers twisting around each other. "What's wrong?" he asks.

Simmons lets her head rest on his shoulder. "That was too close."

"I know."

"Again."

"I know," he says, sighing.

"Of course, I'm glad Coulson is back – we couldn't have survived without him, but we – we almost – "

Fitz lifts his shoulder so that she has to look at him. "But we didn't. We're here. We're all safe and alive and happy, by the sounds of it." This time it's Coulson's laugh they hear, and even if it's tinged with pain, it's still a laugh.

"I know," says Simmons, biting her lip, her fingers crushing each other. Fitz frowns and places his hand over hers. She glances at their hands but only sighs. "I'm just – I'm starting to think that _maybe_ you were right."

At that, Fitz has to laugh. "Of course I was right!" Her eyes narrow at him but Fitz shakes his head. "C'mon – I told you during that first mission that this was dangerous. But we're still here, aren't we?"

"Second mission," says Simmons and Fitz rolls his eyes. "And I know but – this time – it just felt different."

"Why?" Because for Fitz, he knew it was dangerous from the very beginning. But that moment, watching her fall out of the sky like a puppet without strings – that's the moment seared into his nightmares.

But it can't be the same for Simmons, because she doesn't –

"It just – was," says Simmons. She's scooted away from him just a tiny bit, and while his elbow still grazes her arm, he no longer feels her body warmth.

"Okay."

(Simmons leaves his bunk an hour later, after they've sat in silence for five minutes and talked some more for the other fifty-five. By the time she exits, Fitz feels warmer and colder all at the same time. Her distance is a burden he's not ready to handle, yet her presence is suddenly stifling.

Fitz knows he's loved Simmons since their second year at the academy, when he voluntarily failed a class so that she could make it home to see her brother. But that's the night he realizes he's probably in love with her too.)

* * *

Mrs. Fitz lives in a small apartment in Scotland; when Fitz visits the summer after they graduate from the Academy, he brings Simmons.

Mrs. Fitz is indeed a bright woman; her house is packed with literature and diagrams and maps and graphics and Simmons wonders how such an intelligent woman can look so lonely. But the woman wears a constant smile, bakes cookies, and makes lemonade, and Simmons can almost pretend she doesn't miss her own mother.

"Leo speaks very highly of you, dear," says Mrs. Fitz one evening. Fitz has disappeared somewhere, probably to play with a toy he snuck out of their lab, leaving Simmons in the kitchen with Mrs. Fitz. "He thinks the world of you."

"He's a very – he's great," says Simmons. But the word isn't quite right, sitting heavy on her tongue. "No, not great." Mrs. Fitz raises an eyebrow at her and Simmons shakes her head, eyes widening. "No! No, I mean, he _is_ great, but he's more than that – he's – " No word seems proper, each one running through her head and then immediately denied.

Mrs. Fitz's smile is knowing. "Beautiful?"

This time, she sees Fitz when she hears the word; she sees his wide smile that makes his face glow, and she sees him biting his lip as he stands with hands placed backwards on his hips as he thinks, and Simmons sees him when he reenters the house, arms filled with flowers. "Beautiful," she says, barely a whisper, but only Mrs. Fitz hears her.

(Fitz cooks dinner for them that night, and Simmons is pleasantly surprised with how good it is. As she watches him blush under his mother's gaze, Simmons can only smile.

Simmons knows she's loved Fitz since the moment he took her to that bookstore, revealing his obsession with _Doctor Who _and an affinity for couplets; but that's the night she realizes she's probably in love with him too.)

* * *

Fitz stumbles onto the BUS at half-past one in the morning and the first place he goes to is the lab.

He's not _really_ sure why; his brain feels a little bubbly and he may be drunk, but he's lucid enough to understand that when the faint blue light glows from Simmons' side, that means she's still there and still awake.

"Simmons?" When she looks up, Fitz feels all the bubbles pop and the fog clear just a bit. Her eyes are red and he's not sure if it's because she can't sleep or if it's because she's been crying. Either way, Fitz doesn't like it. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says, her back stiff and her focus centered on cleaning up her desk space. Fitz frowns as he steps closer, but Simmons freezes before standing. "I – I should get to bed."

"Jemma – "

"I'm really tired, Fitz," says Simmons, and her voice _sounds_ tired too. It sounds tired and burdened and _resigned. _"It's been a long day."

Fitz can't stop frowning. "Okay – if you're sure – "

But Simmons just smiles, her eyes dull and her cheeks tense; she heads to the door and Fitz is left staring at nothing, bathed in blue. But before Simmons can slide back the glass, words start escaping him for the second time that day. "I kissed Kaitlin tonight."

If Fitz wasn't looking for it, he'd have missed Simmons tense. "Really?"

"Yeah."

Simmons turns slowly and for the first time since he's met her, Fitz is staring at her face with no idea what's she thinking. "So all that – back in the building – "

"I was just – I _do_ love you," says Fitz, and maybe because the fog is so warm he can admit that at least, "but the moment – we were in danger and we didn't know what was happening – and you're my best friend, Jem, and that's never going to change – so yes, I meant it, I do love you."

"And you kissed Kaitlin." Her blank face unnerves him more than any dead carcass she has ever brought into their lab.

"Yeah – yeah, I did," says Fitz. He isn't sure if he's hoping for a reaction or expecting one, but he doesn't get _anything_ except another small smile.

"I'm happy for you," she says and if nothing else, Fitz is sure he's sincere. And that's when the tiny flame flickering in the back of his heart goes out with finality.

"Oh."

Simmons raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I just – I," he says and Fitz shakes his head, hoping the bubbles and clouds would just disappear. Instead, they appear faster. "I – oh."

"Well," says Simmons, just looking at him. "I'm going to go to bed."

"Goodnight, Jemma."

"Goodnight, Leo."

(When Fitz wakes up the next morning, he finally realizes she called him Leo. The word echoes in his head for days on end, even as they take their next mission and Simmons stops touching him insistently and Kaitlin calls again.

It sounds too much like _goodbye_.)

* * *

Even though she has the key, Simmons still knocks whenever she comes by Fitz's apartment. He lives alone, sure, but Simmons knows from experience that Kaitlin can show up at the most inopportune moments without notice.

So, ever to follow rules, Simmons knocks.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," says Fitz through the door and Simmons has to smile as his accent clouds his groggy voice. "Woke me up from my damn nap!" he says as he swings the door open, his shirt half over his head.

"It's four in the afternoon, Fitz," says Simmons, slipping inside.

"Exactly."

Simmons rolls her eyes. She unabashedly watches as he struggles with his shirt before giggling. "Here," she says, dropping the envelope in her hands on the coffee table, and reaching over to help him. With eyes on his shirt and not his chest, Simmons eases Fitz's neck through the hole. "How do you ever survive without me," she says fondly, her attention on his face and not how close he is.

His tired face is suddenly awake and suddenly serious and Simmons freezes as she wets her lips. "I really don't know," he says, his voice quiet and soft and Simmons just looks at him look at her.

It's probably only a second that passes before she blinks and steps back, but it feels much longer. "So I have something for you," she says, reaching back for the envelope. Fitz looks normal again, messy hair and raised eyebrow and tiny frown. "Open it."

He does; his grin lights up his entire face and if Simmons didn't know any better, she'd think it's Christmas. "Congratulations! And of course I'll be there."

Her thumb runs across her palm. "Actually, I wanted to ask you something else," says Simmons, biting her lip. "Um – well – will you be my – "

"Yes."

It's funny, but her first reaction is not to question him. Her first reaction is to smile with relief and embrace him; because he's Fitz and she's Simmons and he'll always know.

(Fitz turns out to be an excellent best man, calming her down during the wedding planning and having plenty of talks with Skye. He ends up making more decisions than the other bride herself, picking the color scheme and main entre, while Skye gives her back massages.

In fact, sometimes Simmons wonders if Skye's the best man and Fitz is the bride and not the other way around.)

* * *

They find a broken communicator on the floor before they hear the voices.

Fitz vaguely recognizes the language as French, and decidedly not English, before Simmons pulls him around the corner and towards another hallway. He does his best to focus on running and finding a place to hide rather than the way his stomach _screams_.

"Here!" he says, spotting an abandoned room. They barricade the door with a chair, but other than that the room is empty, so they're left with only hope and their brains.

Simmons hands him the broken communicator. "Can you fix it?"

"With no equipment?" he asks, trying not to grind his teeth together. He's surprised his voice doesn't squeak either. Shaking his head, he sighs in frustration. "This can't be fixed, someone's probably stepped on it."

"Well what do we do then?" says Simmons, wringing her hands with wide eyes.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because you dragged me into this room!"

"Yeah, well, you dragged me into this building!"

"Oh _please_ – not this again – "

"You know what," says Fitz, because maybe it's the fire or maybe it's just adrenaline, but Fitz just needs to _talk_, "_yes_, this again! We get into these situations and yet you keep dragging us back! And you even _admitted_ I was right – that this is _dangerous_ – but we agreed that we wanted to do this anyway! So don't you try to blame _me_ – when you and I both know I'd follow you _anywhere_, Jemma!"

"Fitz, no – "

"I care about you and if something happened and I wasn't there? I would _never_ forgive myself."

"Fitz, please, don't – "

Her protests are gas to his fire, but despite his willingness to finally _say it_, his stomach churns as hope desperately flees. "Jemma, I – "

The two words end up dying on his lips; all he sees is her devastated face before the door slams open.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" asks May, dropping her gun slightly and gesturing for the two to follow her. Fitz and Simmons exchange a look; he only sees relief in her eyes. Somehow, that's worse than her saying _no_.

(They all get out alive, thankfully, but Simmons avoids him the rest of the afternoon. Fitz copes by sitting in his bunk, playing with his phone, until he stumbles upon an old message. And since they're in New York, Fitz decides to call Kaitlin.

Fitz and Kaitlin have their first date that night; they have dinner and walk around Central Park before grabbing frozen yogurt. It's normal and fun and safe, and Fitz kisses her goodnight before heading back to the BUS.)

* * *

"May I cut in?"

Fitz looks at her with surprise and Simmons would be lying if that look didn't hurt. But then he smiles and looks at Kaitlin who rolls her eyes. "Of course," says Kaitlin, grinning widely. "I'll just grab a drink."

Fitz takes her hand and places the other on her waist. Simmons still feels her mouth dry when he looks at her, her hand resting on his chest. "You look gorgeous," he says.

"I see Kaitlin finally got you to wear a bow tie," says Simmons with a grin. "I like the color too."

"Brings out my eyes?" says Fitz. She rolls her eyes and doesn't nod but she doesn't need to; Fitz's smug laugh is answer enough. "Excited?"

"Nervous," says Simmons; if it's anyone else, she'd just go with excited. But this is Fitz. "But – not like – "

Fitz tilts his head to the side as they spin around. "You love her and you're happy, just – nervous." Simmons smiles, her shoulders relaxing. Fitz nods. "You two will be fine."

"What about you? Do I finally get to take you ring shopping?" she says, and pretends that her wishes for ring shopping did not used to be under vastly different circumstances.

Fitz shakes his head. "No, no ring shopping. Maybe someday."

The next song is slow and they decide to keep dancing; but they do so in silence. Simmons can't help but wonder if this dance could have been different. But the silence is very much the same – it's not awkward and not comfortable, it just is. They dance with her head on his chest and sometime in the middle of the song, Fitz kisses her hair.

"Fitz?"

"Simmons?"

"I love you, Leo." The words flow like honey and she wonders why it took her so long to get the words unstuck when all she feels is Fitz with his arm around her.

"I love you too, Jemma."

Simmons knows he means it.

(The next day, Fitz falls in love with Kaitlin when she hands him a monkey charm for Simmons' new bracelet. Simmons marries Skye that morning, with Coulson around Skye's arm and Simmons' own father around her own.

But before Simmons leaves that evening for her honeymoon, she pulls Fitz into an abandoned room in the church. Fitz stares at her with wonder in his eyes and Simmons feels that familiar ache all over; but she kisses him on the corner of his mouth, letting her hand lingering on his cheek.

Then Simmons leaves. Fitz doesn't follow.)

* * *

This is the story of how Fitz and Simmons became Fitzsimmons. This is a love story.

Just maybe not the one you were expecting.


	4. twenty

**Summary****:**_ "Ten bucks says you can't get her number."_ Skye and Ward, in the bar._  
_**Warning/Spoiler: **minor 1x12 "Seeds" spoilers  
**Rating:** K+/PG  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Ward/Skye_  
_

**Author's Note: **Originally posted on Tumblr 1/5 for a request by anonymous, who wanted something relating to the still released for 1x12 "Seeds"

* * *

"Ten bucks says you can't get her number."

It's out of her mouth before she can really think about it; it's all a game, really, his smile and his eye rolls and his ability to be equally irritating and breathtaking all at the same time. Skye wonders if that's part of his training - exuding the persona of someone with charisma and charm. But she knows better - she knows he's truly a robot when it comes to people.

Which is why she grins and slaps down a ten, waiting expectantly for Ward's response.

Ward raises an eyebrow. "The girl by the pool table?" Skye nods, her grin never wavering. "Twenty."

But then it does. "Twenty? Are you serious?"

"Think I can't do it?"

"No, I don't," says Skye, glancing back over to the woman: red hair, high heels, gorgeous smile - Ward has no _chance_. When she turns back around, he's closer - she can see his jawline tense and release several times, his teeth graze his lips, his eyes catch hers. The pit in her stomach hardens; she swallows. "You're on," she says, her voice soft but thankfully steady.

And then Ward grins and walks away, leaving Skye on fire.


	5. constellations

**Summary****:**_ "If Fitz has to pick between being tortured by Russian mobsters and the outdoors - okay, he'd pick the outdoors." _Simmons drags Fitz stargazing._  
_**Warning/Spoiler: **None.  
**Rating:** K+/PG  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Fitz/Simmons_  
_

**Author's Note: **Originally posted on Tumblr 1/5 and based on a tumblr post by aidnturner.

* * *

If Fitz has to pick between being tortured by Russian mobsters and the outdoors - okay, he'd pick the outdoors.

But if Fitz has _any_ other option – watching some movie that Ward or Skye picked out, for instance, while still safely behind the many walls of the BUS – he'd pick that over sitting outside in the cold any day of the week.

And yet, with Simmons dragging him towards the grassy plains of an open field, Fitz finds himself outside. His jacket isn't quite as warm as it should be and his toes are already wet from the dew sticking to the grass; but Simmons rolls her eyes and lays out a blanket, the sunlight bouncing off her hair.

"Why can't we just sit in the van – "

"Because we can't _see_ anything from there, Fitz," she says. He imagines that she's arranging their things around the corners to keep the blanket from flying away in the wind.

Meanwhile, Fitz hugs himself tighter. "Simmons, it's_ cold_ – why can't we just come back later – like, maybe, in the daytime, in the summer - "

"You were the one who wanted to stargaze while we were in northwest," says Simmons, probably with a tiny grin and an eye roll as she rubs her hands together in her off-white gloves.

"I didn't mean _outside_," he says under his breath, glaring at the tiny insect that hovers over his head.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he says quickly, swatting away the bug when the buzzing starts echoing in his ears. "But all these bugs – I hate bugs – why can't we just – "

"Sit down, Fitz."

He does; he sits down, cross-legged and cross-armed, back hunched forward, glaring at tiny blades of grass that dance in the nighttime breeze. The sun has already set, although slivers of pink light still glow in the distance. Simmons sighs; he can imagine her slight smile as she gazes upwards, at the moon already peaking out from behind the clouds, and at the stars glittering amidst colorful skies. Fitz still stares at the ground though. "I'm hungry," he says, curling his knees towards his chest, ignoring his completely settled stomach. "I left some snacks in the van, I should go back and get – "

Simmons hand rests on his arm before he can move. "I made some brownies that we can eat in a little bit." Fitz sighs and remains still, letting her hand linger on his skin. "Now shut up, and embrace it," she says; and when she does move her hand, he looks over at her for the first time since they'd left the van.

It's funny, Fitz thinks, that he's here to see the stars; giant balls of gas illuminated light-years away, glittering like tiny specs in their night sky. Meanwhile, he sits beside a living star, an animated and breathing and_glowing_ star, whose eyes map patterns with each blink. Simmons glows in the dusk; and Fitz bites his lip when she glances over at him. "What?" she says, scratching her cheek.

Fitz smiles without really meaning to. "I guess – if you ignore the cold, and all the bugs – it is kind of nice."

Simmons grin is worth any chills and bug bites because his stomach warms; she moves closer to him, letting her head lie on his shoulder. Automatically his arm wraps around her, his hand resting on her waist. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she says. Her head is turned upward, towards the galaxies and stars and even the aliens with their special powers. But by the angle, Fitz only sees her face, framed in strands of silk, illuminated with the thoughts of the unknown. Her teeth graze her lips and Fitz forces himself to follow her gaze, mapping out a constellation from her to him.

"Yeah, it is," he says, whispering into her hair.


	6. blood

**Summary****:**_ "Skye gives up in the black SUV, stuffed in the back seat between Fitzsimmons, May's driving growing increasing unsteady, as Coulson's voice barks orders through their comms. Ward's leg continues to jump, rhythmic tapping to soothe against the cracks of her neck as they drive over unpaved road, Fitz's clenched fist rubbing against her thigh." _The team comes home after a mission._  
_**Warning/Spoiler: **None.  
**Rating:** T/PG-13  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Skye, minor Ward/Skye, mainly Skye/everyone_  
_

**Author's Note: **Originally posted on Tumblr 1/6 for the prompt "please can you do some story about skyeward based in the song Say Something?" by anonymous.

* * *

Skye gives up in the black SUV, stuffed in the back seat between Fitzsimmons, May's driving growing increasing unsteady, as Coulson's voice barks orders through their comms. Ward's leg continues to jump, rhythmic tapping to soothe against the cracks of her neck as they drive over unpaved road, Fitz's clenched fist rubbing against her thigh.

Ward is whispering harshly at May, something about _hurry up_ and May doesn't spare him the time to glare; but Skye can barely hear her low response – _it won't matter how fast we get there if we all die in a car crash _– because Simmons is muttering under her breath. "At this rate, we have maybe ten minutes before - " Through her haze, Skye sees Fitzsimmons exchange a loaded glance; Skye smiles at their nonverbal conversation – her heart warms.

But her blood is running cold.

"You guys are cute," says Skye, letting her words flow like the blood from the bullet wound in her stomach. "Have I said that lately? You're cute." Maybe her words are covered in blood too, because Fitz is staring at her in horror, ice blue eyes melted into pools of dirty water.

Ward is staring at her – or maybe he's not really and her imagination is running away from her – and she remembers the look in his eyes: fear, pain, helplessness. It makes her smile.

And as she's smiling, thoughts running away from her – Fitz is rambling about the blood and how it matches Simmons' shirt, and Simmons is telling him to _shut up _while increasing the pressure on the wound, and May is swerving to avoid pot-holes and get them to the nearest hospital in one piece, and Ward is just_staring_ – Skye gives up.

"I didn't need my parents to find a family," she says. Skye wonders if the tears in Jemma's eyes are mirrored in her own smile, red and white and clear. "I had you guys."

"Skye," says Leo firmly, and for the first time since the bullet pierced her skin as she shoved Fitz back to the ground he _looks_ at her – blood and guts and bones and tears. "You are not going anywhere."

"I wish Coulson was here," says Skye, his words floating somewhere between synapses in her brain, not quite settling. "I miss him."

"We're going to meet him," says Melinda sharply, and Skye thinks she feels the road evening and the car _surging_. "And you're going to tell him yourself."

"That's a fun conversation – " says Skye. Her mouth feels heavier now, and breathing seems like a waste. Lights circle Jemma's hair, like a halo – Leo's angel, maybe. Skye smiles at the thought. "You're pretty."

Skye thinks she hears Leo snort and agree but then all she sees is Grant, hardened jaw and dark eyes; his arms are warm.

"Couldn't wait until the wedding to carry your bride, huh Grant?" she says. Blood and breath keep leaving her but somehow she knows his chest is really nice to lean against. "Moving so – fast – "

"I don't know what you're muttering but I'm sure it's sarcastic and annoying," says Grant and Skye wants to laugh. She wants to laugh and throw her head back and whip her hair around a couple of times; maybe she'll curl a couple strands around her fingers and wink and Grant will blush. But she can't and she doesn't, but Grant is lying her down now.

Her fingers catch onto his. "You're my family," says Skye, because she's given up. She squeezes – or maybe it's just a light graze – and tries to smile: her face is too heavy though and instead she closes her eyes. "Love you guys."

It's dark after that.


	7. fire

**Summary:**_ "They really needed to pass their field training."_ FitzSimmons are in trouble. Again._  
_**Warning/Spoiler: **None.  
**Rating:** T/PG-13  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Fitz/Simmons

**Author's Note: **Originally posted on Tumblr 1/6 based on a headcanon from user aidnturner.

* * *

They really needed to pass their field training.

For probably the seventh time in the past several months, Simmons found herself staring death in the face, Fitz's hand wrapped around her wrist the only anchor to reality and the gravity of the situation. Simmons swallowed when the large man stepped towards them, his toothy grin revealing yellowed teeth that clashed violently with his well-kept suit.

"Seems S.H.I.E.L.D. can't quite keep track of their own," he said, twirling the knife in his hand. Simmons felt Fitz's arm stiffen beside her and she could imagine that he was grinding his teeth in an effort to keep his mouth under control. "Just my luck."

Simmons knew Fitz was eyeing the weapon nervously, eyes flickering between their attackers' face and hands. So she allowed herself a moment to take in a deep breath and _look_ – she scanned the room like May taught her, calculating distances and trajectories and angles between tables and chairs and the window and the door –

"So, which one of you will prove to be more talkative?" The man raised an eyebrow, his smirk sending shivers down Simmons' spine. But even as his steps drew closer to them, Fitz seemed to meld even closer to _her,_ if that was even possible. The knife traced a line between the two of them and Simmons squeezed Fitz's hand. "Maybe the girl?"

"Don't you dare – " said Fitz, one foot sliding in front of hers. Simmons pulled him back immediately.

"So the boy then," said their attacker, his smirk twisting into a smug beam. "Excellent."

And while Fitz wrenched his hand out of hers to meet the man, Simmons let the calculations fall into place – a step there, a kick there, a shout to Fitz –

The knife sat inches from Fitz's face when Simmons narrowed her eyes and _kicked_.

The metal chair slipped and knocked into the man's legs, and in the moment of distraction, Simmons wrangled the knife out of the man's hands – she thought she felt the sting of a cut, but she was used to blood – and threw it as far away as possible. Without thinking about her position or the fact that the man was probably as tall as Ward, Simmons shoved; their attackers head slammed against the corner of a desk, a trickle of blood running down the back of his neck.

"What the hell – " said Fitz, his jaw slack and eyes wide.

Simmons shrugged, not willing to question her luck; she also ignored the nagging voice in her head screaming that she hadn't realized the desk was _that _close. "Come on, we need to get out of here." She grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the hallway, letting him take in the details of the room – including the unconscious body – because she'd rather not do so.

In the empty hallway, with her heart threatening to explode, Simmons finally let out a deep breath as she released Fitz. Her fingers tingled and her head spun, but the tiny smile dancing on her lips faded when Fitz grabbed her hand again and she finally glanced over at him.

His eyes were hard, but they glowed with a tinge of warmth; they were _intense_, burning through her, and Simmons licked her lips as she struggled to swallow. But then before she could even blink, Fitz was kissing her.

His hands started in her hair and on her back, but one traveled down her cheek and the other gripped her tighter, pulling her in closer. Simmons let her hands slide up his chest, the taste of cinnamon and brown sugar and rust lingering on her tongue even as Fitz's teeth graze her lips. He was so _warm_ and the fire still running through her veins seemed to transfer to him too; her breath pooled in their locked embrace and it's a moment later when she pulled back.

"What – "

"I – uh – thought we were trying new things," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "So might as well, right?"

And Simmons laughed.


	8. paper

**Summary:**_"__Most of the time, Jemma understands Fitz." _Fitz always throws scissors._  
_**Warning/Spoiler: **None.  
**Rating:** K+/PG  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Fitz/Simmons

**Author's Note: **Based on a post by tumblr users wefitzthings and traviosita9124.

* * *

Most of the time, Jemma understands Fitz. She understands that he wants a monkey as a lab assistant because the first stuffed animal he ever owned was a monkey gifted from his late father. She understands that sometimes all the possible solutions distract him and that she needs to narrow down the problem in order for him to wade towards the answer. She understands that when it comes down to it, Fitz prefer the familiar: he likes his tea with one sugar in the morning, his coffee black in the afternoon, and his hot chocolate can only have four marshmallows. So while Jemma can claim to understand Fitz, sometimes he makes it easy for her; he's incredibly predictable.

And when he drops his screwdriver for the fifth time in ten minutes, Jemma smiles fondly as she rolls her eyes. "Did you forget to ground yourself again? One of these days you're going to burn your hand on the static electricity – "

"What – " says Fitz, glancing over at her quickly and shaking his head sharply. "No, it's not that."

Jemma frowns. "What's wrong?"

He pauses; his hands hover in midair, his fingers softly typing on an invisible keyboard. She thinks she can see the gears turning in his head, calculating and computing. Fitz bites his lip. "Nothing's wrong."

"Fitz – "

"Leave it, Simmons."

Jemma steps towards him, taking care to stand on right side, away from his left elbow – more liable to get poked in the stomach if she stands there, since Fitz tends to make sudden jabs that way – leaning towards him to keep his attention. "You've been off all day - is this about Skye?" she says, smiling slightly. Fitz glares at her without looking up from his work. "I promise I won't laugh. Or did Coulson give you a new assignment? I can handle not being involved all the time, you know – "

"Simmons – "

"Or maybe you're homesick! It's okay, Fitz, you know how much I miss my parents – we could give your mum a call tonight! Or – well, whenever tonight is in Scotland – "

"Simmons." Fitz drops his work onto his desk and stares at her. Jemma shifts under his gaze.

"Please Fitz? You know you can tell me." He stays quiet, just looking at her. Narrowing her eyes, Jemma nods as the perfect plan settles into place. "Fine. Roshambo."

"What?"

"Roshambo," says Jemma again, still nodding. She knows Fitz; she knows this is the best way – she knows Fitz will always throw scissors, and she knows Fitz knows that _she_ knows he always throws scissors. If Fitz _really_ doesn't want to talk to her – "If I win, you tell me what's on your mind. If you win," she says, shrugging slightly, "you may do whatever you please."

Fitz continues to stare at her, the only hint of emotion the slight twitch in his left eye. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." Stepping towards her, Fitz extends his hands. Jemma nods to him. "Roshambo," he says; she's staring at their hands.

She crinkles her nose at the sight of his flat hand. Fitz _never_ throws paper – unless he really wants to win. Jemma sighs. "Okay – if you don't want to say anything – " she says, before looking up at Fitz. But he's not looking at their hands; his eyes are locked onto her, unwavering even as indecision seems to swirl behind his gaze. "What – "

And then he kisses her. Her breath catches in her throat, even as her heart beats rapidly, the warmth of lips wrapped onto hers sending shivers down her spine. Fitz moves back even as she blinks quickly, her mind still whirling as the goosebumps continue to grow on her arms.

"Oh," says Jemma. All other words seem to die somewhere between her brain and her tongue.

Fitz smiles hesitantly. "I'm sorry – we can pretend that didn't happen – "

Jemma grabs him by his tie and kisses him again.


	9. everything

**Summary**_**: "**__The first time he meets Jemma, it's as Leopold Fitz_." Before Jemma, Fitz was Leopold.  
**Warning/Spoiler: **Slight spoilers for 1x12 "Seeds"  
**Rating:** K+/PG  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Fitz&Simmons

**Author's Note: **Uh, this doesn't really have a point other than me writing down my headcanon I guess.

* * *

**everything**

The first time Jemma calls him Fitz, it's as Leopold.

It's the first day at the academy and Fitz stumbles his way through the grounds; his single-room is too far from his class on thermodynamics and he ends up tripping on his untied shoelace halfway there.

Jemma finds him like that, sitting on the lonely white steps, staring at nothing, wondering what the _hell_ he was doing here.

"Leopold Fitz?"

Fitz tries not to flinch, he really does, but even her beautiful voice can't save the ugly name that falls from her lips. "Fitz," he says, finally looking up. And he has to smile, because despite the sunny grin she wears, her hands are wrapped tightly against the books in her hands and she's biting her lip. "You must be Jemma Simmons." He stays seated though, because if she knows his name then she must know that she should run far, _far_ away.

Jemma sits down next to him. "Biochemistry concentration," she says, pulling her books tighter against her chest even as she balances her legs on her toes. Although she looks out, towards the many buildings and the students running around, Jemma is speaking just to him: her voice is low and soft and Fitz wonders what's happening. Isn't she supposed to be running?

"Engineering," says Fitz slowly, keeping his eyes on her. He's probably staring – okay, he _is_ staring – but there's a gorgeous woman sitting next to him – _talking_ to him. Fitz blinks; before he can say anything, make up an excuse to return to his room and barricade the door, Jemma finally turns to him.

"You don't have any classes this morning? Genius like you – I'm sure you have quite a course load!" she says, grinning widely as she lowers her books to her knees. Her hair catches on the reflection of the morning sun and if Fitz squints, he can imagine she could possibly be an angel.

Her excitement is anything but contagious though; Fitz raises an eyebrow. "I'm actually only taking four classes – but I'm working with Agent Weever on a project, and I suspect that'll take most of my time anyway."

"A project? About what?"

Her eagerness is quite grating really. "Well," says Fitz slowly, opening the notebook on his lap warily. He glances over to Jemma, expecting her to stare back glassy-eyed and clearly only flattering, but her focus is solely on the notes and sketches in his lap. "Um – it's a – "

"Long-range paralyzing ray-gun," says Jemma, eyes wide and jaw slack. But there's a twinkle in her eye as her finger scans the page. "And by the looks of it, missing a key component."

Fitz stiffens. "And what exactly would that be?"

"The tranquilizer you're using needs to be in a separate compartment or else it'll negatively react to the neurotoxins," says Jemma, eyebrow raised and voice flat. "It's simple really."

"The tranquilizers –" says Fitz with a frown, mentally calculating the weight needed to balance the gun as an offshoot of the recoil – "Oh."

Jemma bumps her shoulder into his, her books now left beside her. "See, simple," she says; and that's when Fitz smiles back because something about the way Jemma thinks is undeniably intriguing.

"To someone with a concentration in biochemistry, maybe," says Fitz, lowering his voice. "I would have missed that." His finger traces the boxed outline of the cartridge hold, but he's glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

He catches her doing the same; he raises an eyebrow at her and she rolls her eyes. Fitz smiles. Jemma laughs.

"Leopold, huh?" says Jemma finally, and the smile fades off Fitz's face immediately. Scolding himself for letting the flicker of hope grow, he forcibly shuts his notebook, standing. "Hey – I didn't mean – "

Fitz hopes his face is blank as he studies her. "I should get to class."

"It's 9:20, no class starts – " she starts to say, but Fitz feels his chest clench when the pieces fall into place and Jemma just looks at him, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Why don't I walk with you? I'm going that way anyway," she says finally, a soft edge that cuts through the hard rock settling in his gut.

"You don't – "

"Okay, let's go."

When Fitz leaves Jemma at the door of the lecture hall, he wonders why he actually wants to go in; it isn't like he can't make up all the work in less than an hour anyway and it isn't like he'd actually _missed_ anything on the first day anyway –

But Jemma gives him an encouraging smile, her eyes glittering with a _you can't miss class – think about all the notes you have to take later to catch up!_ – and then Fitz rolls his eyes, sighs, and enters the room.

* * *

The first time Jemma calls him Leo, it's as Fitz.

"_Please_, Jemma – she's been bugging me about it for ages – just one second – "

"Fitz," she says, biting her lip and wringing her hands, stationed on his bed. "This is your Mum – "

"And she – just like everyone – will love you, Jem, so come here and say hi," says Fitz, his laptop already poised and ready to video chat his mum. Jemma pauses, just looking at him as the thoughts race and Fitz sighs. "Please? For me?" Her feet start to wriggle and Fitz knows he's almost there. "I promise you can drag me to the boiler room tonight."

He's probably going to regret his promise, but when Jemma slides off the bed and scoots up beside him on his only desk chair, he finds he really doesn't care.

(His Mum loves Jemma, of course, because she's bright and clever and friendly; Ms. Fitz even throws in a jab about how Fitz clearly needs to learn study habits from Jemma, because if she has to hear one more time that Fitz fell asleep in Professor Vaughn's class, she may have to come down there herself, even if it means trying to understand all the 'science-y speak' they seemed so fond of. Fitz rolls his eyes and mutters _that's technobabble_ so that only Jemma can hear him and says bye to his mum as Jemma tries not to giggle.)

But Fitz does regret his promise when Jemma drags him down the boiler room, arm wrapped around his even as he shuffles his feet down the stairs. "Jemma – "

"You promised," she says, staring him dead in the eyes. It's half a challenge, half a question, half a plea. Fitz doesn't question how three halves make a whole because he's sighing and following Jemma, only mumbling halfhearted complaints under his breath.

Somehow Jemma convinces him to have a beer – or three – and an hour later, he's laughing with Collins and Jackson about Professor Vaughn's failed attempts at entertaining during the day's lecture. Fitz thinks a classmate of his may be flirting with him, but he's too distracted by Jemma giggling with Gage about something or another in the corner of his eye. At some point Collins pushes him into Jemma again and she rolls her eyes before pulling him towards a pool table.

"Having fun?" she asks, face glowing and hair pulled back. "Felicia seemed quite riveted by that story about the Faraday cup."

"Who?"

"Felicia," says Jemma, rolling here eyes and still grinning. "You are so daft."

Fitz wrinkles his nose. "Whatever, it was getting stuffy over there – wanna playa game of pool?" he asks, gesturing to the table they happen to be sitting on. The stares are getting to be too much: too may people whispering his name and hers, in tandem and separately, slipping closer and closer. It's harder to breathe when everyone's eyes seem to be focused on them.

"Sure," she says, after a moment of scanning the room herself. Her hand squeezes his shoulder, a whispered _you've got me_ floating in the silence of their corner; the weight of her fingers remains with him, even when he tries to calculate the trajectories needed to win the game despite his drunken state.

Fitz watches Jemma smoothly reject offers to dance even as they play; they all slip up to her, eager grins and ruffled shirts, with glassy eyes. "Hey Simmons," they say, flexing an arm as they lean on the table, "wanna dance?" Fitz raises an eyebrow as she smiles widely and shakes her head, leaning over Fitz to snatch the pool cue from his grip.

She seems just as motivated to be in his company and he is to be in hers. Fitz thinks he hears whispers of _Fitz is a loser_ and _why does Simmons hang out with him_; but he also hears mutters of _Fitzsimmons_ but he probably imagines those. (He only realizes later that they call him Fitz now.)

After Jemma beats him in their game, Fitz rolls his eyes and agrees to let her help him on his homework for the next week.

They stumble home several hours later, after another round of drinks and two more rounds of pool. When they reach her room, Jemma's hanging off his arm, whispering about chemical reactions and the anatomy of monkeys; Fitz wants to laugh, because she's even excited half-asleep and quite inebriated. Instead, he awkwardly digs around in her purse to find her key and when she leans against the doorway, staring at him suddenly awake, Fitz wonders if this is what friendship is: someone staring at you with everything shining in their eyes and having the ability to understand every facet of it.

_Did you have fun?_ asks Jemma; her head is tilted and her eyebrow is slightly raised and her lip is quirked upwards.

Fitz smiles. _I always have fun with you._

They stand like that for a full minute before she kisses his check. "Goodnight, Leo," she says.

He now likes how his name sounds on her lips. "Goodnight, Jemma," he says, turning away as she shuts the door. As he crosses to the other side of campus, he wonders why no one ever called him Leo before.

(That night, Fitz dreams of meeting Tony Stark. Jemma is right beside him.)


	10. paths

**Summary**_**: **__"__They turn away, walking down different paths." _Leopold and Simmons are the what-if.  
**Warning/Spoiler: **Slight spoilers for 1x12 "Seeds"  
**Rating:** T/PG-13  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Fitz, Simmons

**Author's Note: **I just wanted to write some angst, sorry.

* * *

**paths**

Leopold Fitz meets Ian Quinn when he's twenty and struggling in the Academy because no one will talk to him and his professors hate him and all he can muster up the energy to do is sit in his room all day and sketch out designs.

"Mr. Fitz, it seems we have a deal."

When Leopold shakes the other man's hand, he feels a shiver down his spine; it's a little bit of relief, a little bit of excitement, but many parts fear. There's a passing shadow of doubt that nags him, but it's only that – passing, because the voice in the back of his mind has been muffled for years now, tired of screaming against the gag stuffed around it when the science takes over everything Leopold does. So he smiles, signs the papers, and walks out when Ian dismisses him.

A year later, Leopold Fitz graduates from the SHIELD academy with no honors and little recognition to his name; he's known as _that engineer_, the one with the scary ideas and vague hopes.

When they station him at the Sandbox, Leopold only smiles.

* * *

Jemma Simmons meets Phil Coulson when she's twenty-one and drowning under the pressures of working alone at SciOps, especially after she almost starts a possibly facility-damaging fire when she forgets to recalibrate the electromagnetic measuring system in order to make a cup of tea – she hasn't really had a good cup of tea in years.

"Agent Simmons?" says Agent Coulson, eyes heavy despite a wide smile and the heavily noticeable presence of _being alive._ When Simmons stares back, eyes wide and mouth open, Coulson laughs. "How do you feel about field work?"

When Simmons shakes her head and refuses, citing her failed field tests and inability to finish her designs, Coulson frowns. "I was told by the professors at the Academy that you show incredible potential, Agent Simmons." He leans against the lab table, arms crossed over a file, and Simmons stares at her gloved hands. That word – potential: it feels heavy on her lips; it sticks to her lips and gnaws against her throat. "But it always seemed something was holding you back," he says and Simmons has to look up.

"Sir – there's nothing – I'm just not sure if I'd be of any use – "

"If I didn't think you'd be of use, Simmons," says Coulson, the ghost of a smile lingering on his face, "I wouldn't be here."

But it's that word that still haunts her, keeps her chained down: whatever potential Simmons may have, she doesn't have it _now_. "I'm sorry, sir – but I don't think I'm right for the job."

Several months later, they relocate her to the Sandbox. Simmons can't say she's surprised: they send all the lost causes there.

* * *

Leopold and Simmons meet each other in a hallway at half-past eleven at o'clock on a Thursday night. Simmons is scheduled to conduct tests on the latest project stashed away and Leopold is scheduled to give Ian Quinn an update about possible hazardous materials of benefit to his organization.

When Simmons sees him, she wants to scream. She doesn't.

"You shouldn't be here," she says instead, steadying her frantic breathing; it's dark and late and the building is creepily silent. Secretly, Simmons hates it here and this is why.

Leopold tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "I know you," he says, searching for the right memory, the right moment. It clicks all at once and he wonders why he feels that voice in his head start to scream a bit louder. "Jemma Simmons."

"Leopold Fitz?" says Simmons, eye widening slightly. "I didn't know you were here – I thought they'd have you in some super high tech lab in Europe or Asia – "

"Nope," he says, his smile flat and his eyes completely dull. "Could say the same for you."

Simmons crosses her arms over her chest, looking at the floor. "I wasn't quite what they wanted."

There's silence; Simmons wonders why she's comfortable around this man and Leopold wonders why he's still standing here and hasn't bolted. But then Simmons shakes her head and Leopold steps towards the exit.

"I should be leaving – "

"You should leave – "

A pause passes before they both laugh, hollow and sharp, a knife through the awkwardness. Even as she chooses her words, Simmons thinks Leopold already knows what she's going to say. "I won't say anything."

And Leopold smiles. "Thank you."

They turn away, walking down different paths.

* * *

Leopold dies a week later, shot in the head by a Centipede solider under duress, who dies pleading _please, don't_ before his pupil is dripping in blood. Simmons is the one who inadvertently kills the solider; working late once again, her timing is impeccable: she slips into the empty room just in time to see the shot fire, to see Leopold resigned and grimacing, to see his body fall to the floor with a simple thud.

And then Simmons screams, the solider turns to her panicked, fires an empty weapon, and starts cursing.

When the other agents find her, Simmons is staring at the body of Leopold Fitz wondering why everything hurts.


	11. gold

**Summary**_**: **__"__She's still staring at her hands, at the solid golden band melted into her skin like it's always meant to be there." _Fitz and Simmons pretend to be married for a mission, but Skye is suspicious.  
**Warning/Spoiler: **None.  
**Rating:** K+/PG  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Skye, Fitz/Simmons, Ward

**Author's Note: **I'm not super happy about this one. Based on some posts on Tumblr.

* * *

**gold**

Fitz sits on his hands. "I'm sorry it's too big – "

"No, no," says Simmons, shaking her head, twisting the ring around her finger once more. "I just don't like taking it off." She's still staring at her hands, at the solid golden band melted into her skin like it's always meant to be there.

Fitz rubs the back of his neck as he smiles before taking her hand in his. "I don't like seeing it off either," he says. After letting his fingers graze over hers, he slowly pulls the ring off, committing the image to memory: gold wrapped around pale skin, her pink nails glittering in the silvers of dawn sunlight slipping into his – _their_ – bunk. When he finally looks up, the ring clenched in his palm, Simmons is watching him; her lips are slightly quirked upwards, but her eyes burn through him. Fitz wonders if everyone feels like this – like the person before them can see their heart and bones and soul, can read their thoughts, can just _know_. Transferring the ring from his hand to hers, Fitz kisses Simmons, letting the fire building in his stomach travel through his lips.

"Mm," says Simmons, pulling back. "If you keep that up we may not make it out of here."

Fitz can't help the smirk that slides across his lips. "In that case – "

* * *

_One year later_

"Fitz, you need to calm down," says Ward, one hand on Fitz's shoulder. When Fitz makes some sort of noise, Skye assumes that of protest, Ward sighs. "You guys will be fine."

"Yes because Simmons is a world-class actor," says Skye, her foot still tapping against the wall to the cargo bay. She feels jittery and ansty; something about this entire mission makes her stomach flip constantly, even with Ward standing calmly beside her. "I think we should ask Coulson – "

"Coulson wants us to go in as a couple," says Fitz, still pacing with arms crossed and face twisted. "Coulson knows what he's doing." There's a brief pause when Fitz looks at her, the flicker of doubt in his eyes momentarily visible beneath pre-mission jitters. "Usually."

"_Usually_," repeats Skye, hugging herself tighter and taking a step towards Ward. His shadow seems warmer. "Let's hope Simmons can pretend to like you for one night – "

Fitz glares and opens his mouth to say something, but movement to their side distracts him. His face stiffens all at once, the irritation and annoyance fading into a blank mask; but even despite his emotionless expression, Skye notices his lips twitching and the softness in his eyes.

Skye knows before she even looks what Fitz is staring at.

Simmons shuffles – because that's what she's doing, dragging her feet in short, stiff movements and if Skye couldn't hear her heels clanking against the metal floor she'd think Simmons was wearing slippers – towards them, shoulders hunched slightly forward and arms covered in a silvery shawl. Her green dress clings to everything and if Skye didn't want to shake her, she would be proud.

But even despite the rolling in her stomach and the slight doubt that heightens when Simmons smiles at Fitz weakly, adjusting her shawl and gripping her purse tighter, Skye has to smile. "Looking good," she says, taking Simmons' hand and squeezing it gently. When Skye turns to Ward to see his react, she ignores the drop in her stomach. "And it appears everyone thinks so."

Ward clears his throat. "You do – look – nice, Simmons," says Ward, his eyes shifting way above her head and Skye barely holds onto her snicker. He must have caught it anyway though, because Ward spares her a second to narrow his eyes before shaking his head. "We better go."

Ward slips towards the van and Skye watches Fitz attempt to straighten his bow tie before Simmons rolls her eyes and steps toward him. They're whispering with those secret smiles and even though Skye is still worried - any plan involving Simmons lying is not one she holds much confidence in – a little of the doubt creeps away. If nothing else, Fitz and Simmons _look_ in love – so there's that.

In fact, Skye thinks several hours later when her and Ward are hiding in a corridor in the ballroom, Fitz and Simmons don't only look in love – they look _married_. "They look comfortable," she whispers and she thinks Ward grits his teeth. "I mean, Simmons hasn't shot anyone, so that's good."

"Skye, _be quiet_."

"Oh, loosen up," she says, waving his concern away. "Collins – I'm sorry, _the target_," she says, rolling her eyes when Ward opens his mouth, "is on the other side of the room from Fitzsimmons."

"Can never be too careful."

"Yes, actually, you can," says Skye absentmindedly, because Fitz is staring at Simmons again, his fingers lingering on her lower back as she whispers something up at him. Her smile creeps onto her face, almost as result of Fitz almost choking on his drink; but Skye frowns when Simmons kisses his cheek with a beam and Fitz's neck turns pink. "_Too_ comfortable," says Skye under her breath.

"Target on the move," says Ward, snapping her attention away from Fitzsimmons – where they seem more _Fitzsimmons_ than Fitzsimmons – and towards the man in the navy suit moving to the center of the room.

And then Fitz and Simmons maneuver themselves towards Collins, Ward whispers something on his communicator to May, and when the target ends up with his back to the wall, Skye and Ward pounce.

(Okay, so they don't _pounce_, but Skye thinks her kick to the back of Collin's shins is note-worthy.)

While Ward is shoving a handcuffed Collins into the back of the car, Skye pulls Simmons to the front door.

"Nice job in there," says Skye, nodding back to the building. She can't help the proud smile on her face. "I will admit, I was worried," she says, shrugging and straightening out her jacket. Simmons rolls her eyes and Skye laughs. "But hey, you've improved! I really believed the whole – fake marriage thing." But Simmons pales; she's biting her lip and her eyebrows are furrowed and it's like all at once, Skye _knows_. "How long?"

Simmons sighs, leaning towards Skye to whisper. "A year," she says, grimacing. "I'm sorry – we wanted to say something but – "

A part of her wants to be upset, but Skye can really only laugh. "Oh _thank god_ – there was _no way_ you'd gotten that good at lying so fast. I was worried you were getting secret lying lessons from Ward. Frankly, I was insulted."

"What – "

"But you're just married! To Fitz!" Skye shakes her head, not bothering to hide her smile. "Oh thank god." Simmons stares at her, eyes wide and mouth open, but Skye just keeps grinning. "Don't worry, your secret is safe – "

"Simmons!" Fitz runs up to them, jacket already undone and shirt un-tucked. "Did you know where I left my phone? I could have sworn – "

"You lost it? Already? _Fitz_, you just built it last week! How can you – "

"Hey, I put it down to get _you_ a drink, okay, so don't blame me – "

"I didn't ask for the drink and we both know that phone is worth much more than your insatiable thirst for alcohol – "

"I was getting _water_, I'll have you know – "

Skye leans against the car door, arms crossed; the smile floating onto her face sits easy with the warmth in her chest. Even as they continue to bicker, Simmons straightens his jacket and Fitz grabs her hand and holds onto to it. Rolling her eyes, Skye gets in the car.

"What's taking them so long?" asks Ward, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

Skye grins, shooting a quick glance at the married couple outside her window. "They're bickering."


	12. heart

**Summary**_**: "**__Her heart hurts." _Everyone copes differently.  
**Warning/Spoiler: **Spoilers for "TRACKS" and lots of mentions of blood.  
**Rating:** T/PG+13  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Everyone, everything.

**Author's Note: **Not an original idea by any means, but I've been writing it this since Wednesday so might as well.

Thanks to Tiff for beta-ing.

For my fellow Gangsters. Also Laura and Grace because they put up with me. Actually for all the lovely people that have followed me in the past two months. Plus all the lovely people who were following me before and have stuck around. (You're the true heroes.)

* * *

**heart**

He hates this.

He hates that his nails dig into his palms; he has to keep them clenched to stop the shaking, because his teeth are still grinding together and he can barely stop himself from punching the cryo-chamber. Ward knows that's one thing he _can't_ punch right now – instead he wipes a hand down the glass, watching the tiny patch of fog fade in and out with her shallow breaths.

She looks so pale.

Ward isn't sure how long he's been watching; her lips are purple and her hands are caked in blood. Even without her eyes open, he can imagine them: lifeless and dull, missing the sparkle and the fire.

He wishes he could give her the fire that envelops him. The fire that licks against his wounds and stings against bruises; it's the fire that burns his fingers every time he leaves another dent in their SUV. Ward sees only fire too; he sees twisted contortions of the bastard's face, smug smile broken and perfect hair twisted away. Ward sees guns and bullets and blood: he sees pain.

He _wants_ pain.

Ward hates this: he hates that Skye takes tiny breathes underneath the thin glass keeping her alive, covered in blood and face blank of all emotion. That's his face: blank and emotionless – it's unnatural on Skye and Ward _hates it_.

"Let me wrap up your hand."

Ward's neck snaps when he turns, but Simmons' small smile is nowhere near warm. "I'm fine," he says, letting his knuckles rap once more against the glass before stepping back. "I'm not the one – " he stops because Simmons flinches. "Are _you_ okay?"

Her smile is wider this time, but her eyes echo the lifelessness he imagines in Skye's. "I'm not the one dying," she says. When she takes his hand and runs a finger along his bruised knuckles, Ward does his best not to shiver. "Let me wrap up your hand."

Sighing, Ward nods.

While she twists the bandage around his palm, Ward searches Simmons. He's been staring at a body he barely recognizes, but sitting before him is not his teammate. Her pulled-back hair is fraying and her teeth bite down on her lip constantly and there are dried flakes of blood embedded under her nails. When Simmons steps back, Ward frowns. "Coulson is putting too much pressure on you."

Simmons stiffens. "I'm the biochemist. It's my job to – "

"You're still a person. And Coulson should know better – he's supposed to _know_ better," says Ward. He only notices the volume of his voice when Simmons steps away from him, wincing when his hand slams against the table.

Closing his eyes, Ward only sees fire.

"I have to do this," says Simmons, her voice barely a whisper. Opening his eyes, Ward sees her glancing over to Skye. "I – she needs me, Ward."

"She needs all of us," says Ward, following her gaze. He always liked Skye in purple, he muses absently; but the red is blood and the blue is death and Ward hates it. Simmons maybe nods, or maybe she doesn't, but Ward only sees the death and blood and fire; gritting his teeth, he lets out a slow breath.

Simmons slips towards her side of the lab, tinkering with gadgets Ward doesn't hope to understand; but Skye is still barely breathing and Coulson is hidden away in his room and Ward needs to punch something again. He wants to punch someone – preferably Quinn but maybe Coulson will do. It's Coulson who brought Skye in, who put in her in the field with only Fitz, who encouraged her and showed her what SHIELD could be –

The voice in the back of his head is screaming, of course – _he's her supervising officer, he's her protector, he's her mentor: he should have taught her better, he should have been there, he should have punched Quinn._ But the fire continues to climb through each nerve and vein, leaving behind the ashes of his every failure – from a well to a cyro-chamber: and now the voice just sputters and chokes and coughs, spitting out words and doubts and guilt. But the anger is too much.

Ward leaves the lab in silence.

But on his way past the lounge and towards the spiral stairs to Coulson's office, May intercepts him.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she says. If Ward is the flame, then May is now the ocean because he's wondering if he's drowning. Her hand is steady on his arm, but he barely feels it. Even her skin on his leaves him numb; he wonders if she stays with him for too long if she'll burn too.

"He's putting too much pressure on Simmons," says Ward. His arm opposite to May is tense; Ward forces himself to stretch out each muscle. "I just wanted to tell him that."

"Let me handle Coulson." The fire is turning blue now, hotter and more dangerous and Ward is glad the others can't see him: they'd see his eyes and know. "Get some rest. We'll be landing soon."

Her voice is flat, but Ward imagines there's softness in it. That warmth masked as a command that cuts though him, even despite the uneasiness lingering in his chest when she talks of Coulson; Ward lets out a breath. "Shouldn't you be flying this thing?"

May smiles. "Shouldn't you be punching something?"

Ward lets her climb the stairs alone. He hates this.

* * *

His palms cradle his eyes, but the darkness is tinted in the icy visions of her deteriorating body. All he sees is Skye balancing everything and nothing, a strange smile teasing her lips; it's as if she _knows_.

Coulson refuses to let Skye die.

"Sir?" Coulson looks up to see Fitz, still in disheveled casual clothing; Coulson doesn't want to know whose blood is sprinkled on the gray hoodie. "I know you're – I just wanted to – "

"Spit it out, Fitz," says Coulson, leaning back in his chair. His shoulders ache; something about burden and weight and worry.

Fitz bounces slightly, eyes on the floor before they finally snap to meet Coulson's. "It's about Simmons." As Fitz rubs the back of his neck, steeling himself, Coulson straightens. "You're putting too much pressure on her. It's – she's a person too. Sir." The title is tacked onto the end, but Coulson barely processes it. He's already thinking of Simmons, the red on her hands matching the hole in Skye's stomach; shaky hands holding knives and sore wrists pushing back hair and tears. Coulson frowns.

"She's strong," says Coulson. Skye is strong too. "We should be landing soon."

Fitz stares at him for a moment. "Right." Coulson looks at Fitz but only sees Skye. "Is there anything else, sir?"

Coulson raises an eyebrow. "You were the only who came to me. But – tell Simmons it's not her fault, okay?" Fitz stiffens when Coulson leans forward. "She's trying and I wouldn't trust anyone else more." Because Skye is dying and Simmons is the best; Coulson needs to fill out the paperwork and get this plane to a hospital. Nothing else matters yet – then, he can worry about the prisoner in their cage and the sinister voice that cackles in his head.

Even though he nods, Fitz remains quiet. It's unnerving – there's little twitching and a steady gaze and Coulson can hear Skye calling him out on it. She's that ghost on his shoulder laughing and Coulson will not let her die.

But Fitz doesn't move. "Is there something else, Fitz?" asks Coulson, fingers tapping against his desk. He stops when they sound too much like bullets. "I need to get back down – "

"No, sir," says Fitz. He bites his lip and looks down and shakes his head. "Nothing."

Fitz leaves with heavy feet and Coulson sighs. The silence is suffocating; the lingering laughter and teasing haunts him, whispers sounding too much like Quinn crackling on a vinyl on repeat. Leaning into his hands once again, Coulson sees Skye with her eyes open and an empty smile; he forces himself to scan the next document, circling answers and wincing at all the unknowns – date of birth, sir name, place of birth –

May enters when the impulse to tear the papers in front of him becomes too much.

"We'll be landing soon," she says, casually closing the door behind her. Her slight limp is hidden in her straight back and tight steps; but her shoulder twists against her, her hard eyes swirling with memories Coulson doesn't dare wish to see. "Have you already reported – "

"Yes," says Coulson, cutting her off and ignoring the edge in his voice. Somehow talking to May is worse; he can't bring himself to look at her face for too long, worrying he'll see pale skin and bloody lips. "How's – "

"Stable," says May, and while Coulson is staring at blurry papers again, he knows she's stepped closer. "Ward is – " she stops and Coulson imagines that she's rolling her eyes. "He's her S.O. He's not taking it well. Neither is Simmons."

Coulson closes his eyes; he only sees Skye and he wonders if she'd be upset that Ward is creating dents in cars and that Simmons can't seem to leave the lab. "I should - "

"No, you shouldn't," says May, and he bets her hands are gripping the desk tightly, her gaze cutting into him. "Ward blames you."

He smiles with his eyes still closed. "He probably should."

"Is that why you're up here hiding?"

And he has to look up at that; May, for all her faults, knows him too well. Coulson isn't sure he likes that. "She's dying," he says as he drops his arms and when he looks at May, he sees Skye barely hanging onto life in a glass tube. He hopes his voice isn't shaking too much. "And I know if she does, I can still save her."

So he refuses to let Skye die.

* * *

When he passes May on the staircase, she makes him stop, hand on his shoulder, eyes narrowed. Fitz finds it difficult to breathe in that moment and he wonders if it's finally coming – if May will see what everyone else seems to be ignoring.

It's all his fault, after all.

But May just nods, stepping back and letting him go, and Fitz doesn't understand.

It's in this haze of confusion, with echoes of previous conversations repeated in his head and hands stuffed in his pockets, that Fitz runs into Ward, standing before his bunk and just – staring.

"Something wrong?" says Fitz before wincing. Ward turns to him slowly, but even though his face remains blank, his eyes burn. "I mean – other than – I – "

"Is he hiding?" says Ward and Fitz blinks.

"What?"

"Coulson," says Ward, his focus completely on the empty staircase, "is he hiding?"

Fitz frowns; he knows that Ward is angry – the clenched fists stuck roughly to his sides are indication enough – but he doesn't _understand_. It's all _his_ fault. "Coulson? No – he's just – you know – "

"Upset? Guilty?" Ward looks ready to punch something and Fitz wants it to be him, frankly. "Skye shouldn't have been there alone in the first place."

"She wasn't alone," says Fitz, snapping; she _wasn't_ alone: he was there, and he let her go, and she was _shot_ – "I was there."

Ward blinks and Fitz wonders if he really would punch him. "You and Skye were doing your job. She – you were both just doing your _job_." There's something breaking in Ward, just as his voice cracks, and Fitz doesn't _understand_. "This is not your fault."

Fitz wants to laugh. Instead, he watches Ward shake his head and throw open the door to his own bunk. Instead, Fitz drags his feet back to the lab and barely registers Simmons half-hearted smile when she spots him. Instead, he sinks into Skye's chair, watching her body struggle to stay alive.

_Be careful, okay? _He can still hear the click of the gun as he adjusts it, can still feel her gaze lingering on him. _You too_.

At least _he_ kept his promise. But she didn't and she was shot and Fitz hates blood but he finds he hates _human_ blood – blood caked under fingernails and blood oozing from mouths and blood belonging to people he cares about – even more.

Stomach rolling, Fitz spins the chair around so he's no longer facing the chamber. Skye's twisted scrawl covers a pad, notes about Ian Quinn and Cyberteck having the beginnings of a plan. Fitz frowns at it before spinning back to see the body again.

_Be careful, okay? You too._ And he stayed beneath the bloody car, waiting safely, while she rushed in and did what she needed to do – and he's left staring at the price. Skye confronts the target, Simmons jumps in front of grenades and out of planes – and he fidgets with his bare, useless hands.

It's all his fault.

"Fitz?"

_Be careful, okay? You too_. "Yeah?" he says, rubbing his arm.

"Can you help me with this? It's too heavy for just me," says Simmons, indicating a box lying on the desk. Fitz thinks it may hold vials of chemicals, but he really doesn't care. If Simmons needs it –

He nods and moves towards her. _Be careful, okay? You too_. Simmons may be muttering something about reactions between acetylcholine and the dendrotoxin, but Fitz can only hear the echo of a shout and a bullet and a body falling and _be careful, okay? You too._ His fingers slip momentarily and Simmons just barely catches the box. Wincing, Fitz wraps his arms around it completely, pushing away the image – Skye alone in that cellar, blood oozing through her fingers – and lifts the vials back up into the cabinet.

"Sorry," he says, not looking at her. Skye's blood is still on his hoodie. "It's my fault." Her hand resting on his arm isn't a surprise: the gentle squeeze is. Turning to look at her, Fitz feels himself break at her pale face and restless eyes. "I'm sorry," he says again, voice cracking now against the broken glass that should have sliced him instead. "It's all my fault."

This time, Fitz clings to Simmons; she whispers in his ear but all he hears is _be careful, okay? You too. _He doesn't hear his own cries: "it's all my fault."

* * *

Leaning against the door of Fitz's bunk, she closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath.

The acid in her stomach still churns.

Simmons pauses near the couch, letting her fingers linger over the plush fabric; she can remember shaving cream and _aglet_ and Skye's bright laughter. But the overpowering sorrow crushes her quickly; biting her lip, she heads straight for the spiral staircase.

So focused on steadying her hands, she practically falls into May.

"Simmons," she says, letting her hand rest on Simmons' arm for a moment before falling. Simmons looks back; those dark eyes are searching her, _looking_ for something – May's frown is unknown and Simmons doesn't like it. That frown could be disappointment or anger or urgency – or worry –

"She's still stable," says Simmons, answering the unspoken question. Glancing down at her fingers, she tries to rub away the flakes still sticking to her skin. Absently, she wonders how long it's been now – an hour? Two? – because the blood looks brown. "She should make it until we get to the medical facility." Steeling herself, Simmons forces her gaze up. "How much longer – "

"We'll make it," says May, her voice oddly low – but Simmons still feels the cut of its edge. May nods once. "Will you?"

Simmons bites her lip, forcing her stomach not to growl. Her tense shoulders are sore but she manages to roll them back to straighten. "I'm trying," she says and because it's the truth her voice stays flat.

And May seems to understand that.

"I'm here," says May. She walks past Simmons, probably to the cockpit, and Simmons just stares at the metal banister. Tall lines stand steady, holding up the railing – Simmons wonders if they ever lie down to take a break.

But a railing is an inanimate object without a friend's life in their hands; Simmons knows better.

She climbs the stairs in silence, still rubbing off brown flecks. The acid in her stomach gnaws at her inside, leaving scratches in the lining. Her hands shaking, she knocks twice, waits for the "come in" and pushes back the tears when she enters.

"Simmons," says Coulson, wrinkles so pronounced detailing his face. A hand knocks gently against his desk. "Is Skye – "

"She's still stable," says Simmons again, her hollow voice on repeat. Maybe Coulson hears this, maybe he doesn't, but she really doesn't care. Skye is stable and she has limited time before she needs to rush back downstairs. "I'm just – Fitz told me – "

"I'm sorry," he says, but Simmons sees blood in his eyes and shadows crawling across his skin. The apology hovers between them for a moment before Coulson shakes his head. "You're doing everything – "

"But not enough," she says nodding, her eyes dull. "I should get back."

His eyes boring into her, Simmons steps back to leave, but he stops her. "No," he says, voice cracking and while he's looking at her, a cloud wraps around him. "You're – it's not your fault. She's not dead."

And Simmons smiles, heart heavy and stomach churning and tears of acid crawling behind her eyes. "I know."

She tries not to, but all she can think is: _not yet_.

* * *

They are thirty minutes away and May should be gearing up for landing.

Instead, she lays a blanket around Simmons, who is asleep in the lab, a stray hand resting on glass.

Leaning against the opposite table, May crosses her arms and watches. Simmons is breathing normally – deep movements of the chest with temporal spacing indicating a state of unconsciousness. But Skye – the only indication of her shallow breaths are the tiny circles above her mouth, steaming up the glass every few moments. May frowns.

She's consciously rubbing her shoulder; with every other person in various states of unawareness – her eyes remain firmly on Skye, her tiny blood-soaked fingers still interlocked together – May knows she's alone. The haphazard stitches itch against her skin, but May is more concerned with the deep ache in her chest. It's been a while since the demons haunting her dreams manifested in physical responses; but now, with Skye only lingering in life, all May feels is dread.

Melinda May became the Cavalry so people like Skye could live. And now, with the team she's supposed to hold together falling apart, she wonders if maybe death does really follow this girl. May closes her eyes, letting the black take over in that moment; somehow, Skye managed to mend together a team of broken pieces, and now with her own heart broken, Skye manages to stretch them apart too.

May rubs her shoulder again.

After several moments of silence, where she stares at Skye some more, hoping for movement or a smile or a roll of eyes, May sighs. Glancing at her watch, she knows she needs to be landing soon; but she debates waking the others. Simmons lets out a tiny cry from her uncomfortable position and May decides to let them rest.

Skye doesn't need them now. She needs doctors and facilities they cannot provide.

May walks away, smiling at the clicks of her boots on the metal cargo-bay floor; she can almost imagine Skye dancing behind her, laughing with stars in her eyes. May rubs her shoulder.

_The meadow is very green._

_The high grass tickles her bare calves, but it's the hot sun baring down on her neck that forces her to constantly wipe away sweat. Beside her, Fitz groans. Skye laughs at him and Ward rolls his eyes and Simmons ignores them in favor of carefully running her fingers down the spiny tree. Coulson whispers something to May who nods and glances around before catching Skye's eye._

_Skye smiles._

_The tree warps and suddenly it's crying tears of blood and Skye is alone, fingers tainted in red. The dark sky thunders loudly. Before she kisses the bark, her hair tangles in the branches and twigs snap beneath her feet. Her hands are left with scratches and her eyes fill with tears._

_Her heart hurts._

_The tree disappears and Skye steps over bodies in darkness. Fitz closes Simmons' lifeless eyes, shadows hidden in his shoulders. Ward punches a wall and it crumbles into dust; the dust scatters, settling over Coulson until his usual pristine black suit is a dark gray. A bloody May steps before her; the slap is loud and vibrates against her cheek even as Skye blinks. When her vision steadies, she's alone. _

_She curls up against the trunk of an oak tree; the clouds pass, leaving behind slivers of sunlight that glitter against the morning dew. Her pale pink nail polish matches her skin but her jeans are caked with mud and blood._

_Coulson takes her hand and helps her stand. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Ward steadies her and Skye laughs when Fitz mutters something before leaving a wrapper in her hand. Simmons rolls her eyes but her arm is intertwined with Skye's, her head resting on her shoulder. May stands behind them, watching._

_They trudge forward._

_Skye smiles._


	13. disturb

**Summary:**_"His answer is another swig." _Fitz needs to get drunk and Skye provides company._  
_**Warning/Spoiler: **Mentions events from "TRACKS"  
**Rating:** T/PG-13  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Fitz/Skye, _Fitz&Simmons_

**Author's Note: **Written for Tiff, based on "fitzskye, 'do not disturb.'"

* * *

**Disturb**

When Fitz unceremoniously sits on her feet, cradling a large bottle of whiskey, Skye raises an eyebrow. "Tough day?" she asks, sticking a finger between pages of her book.

Fitz spares a moment to glance at her before taking a swig. "Something like that."

"Science problem or a Simmons problem?" This time, Fitz glares before downing more alcohol. As he grimaces, Skye forces herself to grin. "So Simmons then."

"No one asked you," he says, pushing her feet from beneath him. Even as Skye spreads her legs across his lap, he sighs. "Just let me drink in peace."

"You're the one who sat down next to me."

His answer is another swig.

Dropping her book on the seat beside her, Skye leans over and grab the bottle from his hands, ignoring the fire radiating from his skin. Fitz's protests are lost as she takes a short sip from the bottle; the alcohol burns down her throat. "I still think you should just kiss her." It's half a lie, but it sounds like honey.

"It's not like that, Skye." His voice is actually kind of pathetic, but that doesn't stop tendrils of relief from licking her; Skye hands him the alcohol, which he quickly embraces. "I – it's not like that."

She tilts her head; he's staring off into the distance with a tiny frown, and Skye wonders why the hard look in his eyes makes her stomach clench. "Then what is it like?" she asks softly, bending her knees and scooting him closer to her.

When he looks at her, she leans forward; the ice is splintering. "Drop it, please."

It's that last word: it's low and cracked and desperate, an icicle through her heart. And his eyes are as clear as a do not disturb sign; so even though chipping against the walls Fitz seems determined to erect in front of her is her favorite pastime, she knows Fitz now. Skye swallows. Instead of snapping back the retort sitting on her lips, she grabs the bottle of whiskey from him and downs another shot.

* * *

Every laugh that leaves her throat is stained in red and worry, an effort to console an ache she doesn't quite understand. Fitz is smiling now, at least, but he's also drowning in his own shadows, and Skye hates that.

"You never did tell me about the Faraday cup," says Skye, fingers unconsciously unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt. "Ward tells me it's better when Simmons tells it, apparently, but – "

Fitz stiffens against her; her arm is slung on his shoulder and something on his face shifts. "Let's not talk about Simmons, okay?"

But she's too drunk now for that. She leans closer, resting her chin on his shoulder, practically on his lap. "What happened, Fitz?"

"She – " he starts, breath filled with whiskey, looking at the hand she's unconsciously tracing with her finger. "She keeps – she jumped in front of a grenade, Skye."

Skye understands then, because the pain that fills each wrinkle on Fitz's face matches the stone sitting deep within her gut. "I know," she says, this time consciously squeezing his hand.

"And – she keeps _doing that_ and I don't know – I can't – " He's struggling over words and feelings and Skye wants to relieve the sorrow filling his heart; she wants to take his heart and cradle it to her own. She wants to make the pain stop.

"You don't have to," she says instead, and maybe it's the bubbles in her head that lift her hand to his face. As she caresses curls, searching his jaw, she sighs. "You and Simmons – you'll always be together, right? You would do the same for her, wouldn't you?" He doesn't need to nod for her to know the correct answer. "You're agents. It's in the job description."

When Fitz stares at her, eyes slightly narrowed and nose inches from hers, Skye swallows before sliding her teeth across her lips. His lips are so red, and he's so warm beneath her, and his eyes – he's _sparkling_, really –

"You're an agent too," he says finally, right before she may just kiss him to get it over with. "You're – you're one of us." And when his voice breaks on that last word, Skye doesn't care that he's upset and that her stomach is unsettled or that she's could be totally wrong and off-base. It's that damn _look_ – it burns through her and sets her on fire and so she closes the distance and kisses him.

But – he kisses her back.

His arm snakes around her, pulling her closer and she doesn't protest when his hand sinks her plaid shirt. Her teeth graze his bottom lip and he groans; her grip tightens around his hair, curls slipped between fingers just his tongue glides over her lips. As her other hand travels up to his shoulder, the muscles tightening under her skin, Skye melts into the molten he exudes. Because even though he tastes of alcohol and blood, he smells of sweat and sorrow and pain; and her stomach clenches as he slides his other arm and now she actually _is_ in his lap.

When Fitz pulls back, just slightly because her hands are interlocked around his neck and he's holding her up, he breathes out once. Skye smells whiskey and cinnamon. "Are you – how drunk are you?" he asks, his eyes hesitant to search her own.

"I'll remember this tomorrow," she says. Because she will; he's etched into every memory and crevice and her tongue tastes too much like spice. "And I won't regret it." The blue is burning again, the heart of flame, and Skye licks her lips. "Will you?"

Fitz takes his time; he lingers before her, his small smile just so slightly smug. Skye can't help that her grip tightens around his hair. And when Fitz grins, he only kisses the corner of her mouth. "No."

The empty bottle remains on the floor.


	14. violet

**Summary: **_**"**__You and I collide on a Wednesday afternoon, before dinner and after dark, when the sky is painted pink and gold; it matches your blouse." _Simmons is glass and Fitz is the reflection.  
**Warning/Spoiler: **None.  
**Rating**: K+/PG  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s): **Fitz&Simmons

**Author's Note:** Based on a post. This was experimental, in a way.

* * *

**Violet**

You are an intricately designed map of bone and texture, rotating over the web of complexities tangled by the world: you are glass.

The crystalline formation of your bones defines the edges between smile and laugh. You are a curiosity and the curious, the cosmic energies in your eyes glittering with every discovery. When your mother is proud and your father pleased, you are laughing at the trees. For the trees are red and green and brown, steady and firm, but your laugh is a pale pink, matching your cotton frock, and it dances with insects and the ink in your new books. Those spines are already cracked and pages are already frayed; your fingers leave trails of golden dust that scatter back into the crevices of your mind. You absorb and you associate and you learn and you learn until all that you can _do_ is learn some more so that one day you may also be able to do.

In the meld of blues and greens that embrace your soul, you nurse a propensity to fix. You sweep away the fallen crumbs of food that your mother accidently drops and you hold your friend together when she weeps. You fix and you mend and when chemical compounds become your best friend, you fix those too: because chemicals react logically and you _know_ how to fix those. It's a silver thread that wraps around your limbs and your nerves, tightening each day, and sometimes you wonder what would happen if it snapped – but it never does and you just let it keep twisting around your heart, binding it in place.

Sometimes, when the thread pulls too hard and crystals of your glass melt away along your cheeks and you taste the acrid navy salt along your tongue, you think it hurts more in the space between your thumb and forefinger on your left hand. It throbs here more than in your heart or your head and sometimes you wonder why that is. It's simple anatomy and you research and you discover but it's an anomaly that doesn't quite make sense so you suppose there are organic atoms in that tiny place that just don't belong to you. It's annoying how often the ebb and flow of tension rests within the inch of muscle; one moment dark red, another a sparkling white, another a murky yellow. A constant rainbow of tumultuous emotions race across this one inch of skin; but it's a nagging voice in the back of your mind as you study and discover and research. Eventually you smile and graduate, and one day you are defending your dissertation, and the next you have your first PhD, the pages reflecting gold.

You wonder why an ocean of lavender laced doubt sinks into this inch of skin and throbs painfully the day you receive an official envelope, sharp wings and fancy letters. Your fingers leave trails of pink and yellow and green, and you blink to stop the explosion of shattered glass behind your eyelids. When you open your eyes, wringing your hands, your right thumb runs over your left palm and the pain recedes for the moment into a haze of silvery blue: the atoms in your organic body are screaming and crying and ready for this adventure, but you just aren't quite sure.

* * *

I am the reflection.

When the universe exploded, I was cold and small, and I spun around the fire and ash until settling in your hands. You smiled and blew me away, so I drifted until I blinked; when I woke up, I was no longer cold and no longer small. Yet you were no longer there.

I like to think there is a blueprint with my face and name, grease-covered fingerprints crushing the corners in a black and navy border. Inside the gridlocked outline, I glare and I smirk, fingers twisted around a rod of orange smoke. My mother laughs and cries in intervals of yellow and gray and dresses me in button-up shirts of blue and charcoal. She sighs and smiles with bright blue eyes and I see the reflection of myself in her. She tries, but her lips are ill-fit around the words; misshapen and clashing, the foreign tongue of numbers and edges sounds too awkward. So I squeeze her hand and squeeze the levers and squeeze the nails into my pocket when the man turns away. There's a path of dreams and silver, but it's paved in pebbled black-holes and I learn to skip over them.

Between the flames and wrapped in golden chains, I let pieces click together and the gears squeak; it smells like engine grease and sometimes the wires tangle around my fingers and embed into the callouses. I fail, let the electricity burn away strands of hair or layers of skin; I succeed and watch the steady yellow light burn away the red and green acid crawling between skin tissues. It's trial and error and my chart is filled with more red scratches than green checks, but those successes build on the failures and I try and try and do – it's all a puzzle and when it works, it's another notch etched and note filed away.

But there are many crevices carved by the wooden spear; and sometimes I wonder if the hole in my knee is one of them. In the gap between left cap and tendon, there is space; something is missing and I want it back. Most days the pain is dull, a steady stream of light reds and intense blues and silent green fires; but there are moments when it flares and I stumble, eyelids screaming of fraying threads with the wick catching on a flame.

The gear in my head is probably a time bomb, counting down seconds until my reflection catches its breath, and the world and everything explodes. The steady, persistent _tick tock tick tock_ is a metronome; most days, the throbbing, insistent ache in my knee mirrors this drop of time, another deadline I don't care about and I don't bother to write down. It's just my hands and fingers and nails coated in dark red ink, caked in sweat and leather. I only need to cut the blue wire, not the red, and slice the insulation of the green one, exposing brilliant copper to vivid pink –

The day a tall man arrives in a dark suit, a packet of torn and blood orange stained papers in his arms, I lean my elbows on my thighs, my thumb massaging my left knee, letting the blood flow call out to it's missing piece. The atoms are alight with yearning, and time slows for the moment, the _tick tock tick tock_ of gears clicking together stalling; the electric field is realigning with this man's words, with his solemn smile. My eyes keep gravitating to the booklet in his hands, the title so familiar and previously hidden between boxes of dirt and possibly bio-hazardous material. But the magnets are pointing east and maybe, when the man smiles and nods, typed lettering interrupted with yellow-tinted dots, I'm heading west.

* * *

You and I collide on a Wednesday afternoon, before dinner and after dark, when the sky is painted pink and gold; it matches your blouse.

Despite the pleasantly even room, you are cool against me, arm in front of my chest as you search through my notes. I'm radiating fire and you are water; I'm the reflection of your wide-eyes as you sing the song of science. Your words are poetry: chemical compounds rhyme and reactions alliterate and anatomical mappings repeat and suddenly you're grinning.

When the universe starts, everything is nothing; but when you smile, I am everything and you are my reflection because you are the light weaved around electrons spinning continuously around each other. The hole in my knee and the inch of skin on your palm are clicking – _tick tock tick tock_ – in a haphazard pattern that follows the Fibonacci equation in convergence. I try to tell you to not judge me, but you're enamored with the scrawls and the designs and I stop. Your revelation is a forgotten prophecy, my understanding is a new success, and together you and I draw a rainbow spiral around the unsung problem until it laughs with light.

You are not bounded to the extremes that I am; but I am not prone to heroics. Together, you bump your shoulder into mine and I sigh deeply; your noose loosens into a tether and my bomb is now an alarm, and when I ask you a question, you answer in pastel tones.

So when your left hand rests on my left knee, it's a cosmic event; because the thread frays just a little and the gears stop all together – the _tick tock tick tock_ is bound by the red and gold string, a tangled web naturally knotted without hope to undo – and your pink meets my blue. You nod, I smile, and as you move your thumb along my knee, we are royal violet, and everything begins.


End file.
